


A Prince Promised

by AlyxSvoboda125



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, BAMF Lyanna Stark, Dragons, Elia Martell Deserves Better, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Lyanna Stark Lives, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Multi, Prophecy, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaegar Targaryen Lives, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The Golden Company (ASoIaF), The Prince That Was Promised, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:34:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 86,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyxSvoboda125/pseuds/AlyxSvoboda125
Summary: With Rhaegar's prophesized Visenya born a girl and a realm that's bled in her name, Lyanna Stark looks into the face of her son with uncertainty.  Lyanna sees no future for her son and no choice but to run.  Ser Arthur Dayne sees a girl destroyed and no safety for her child.  In the aftermath of war and the uncertainty of prophecy, they spin a story the bards will sing for decades.  In Westeros, King Rhaegar raises his son, daughter, and sister beneath the certainty of prophecy, greatness, and fate.  In Essos, a disgraced lady and fallen Kingsguard raise boy called Jon amongst sellswords, smugglers, and slaves.  Prophecy cannot be outrun, and the greatest attempts to manipulate fate backfire the most spectacularly.Or,Rhaegar Targaryen wins the war, but the kids are not all right.ON HIATUS
Relationships: Arthur Dayne/Lyanna Stark, Ashara Dayne/Benjen Stark, Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen (past)
Comments: 357
Kudos: 705





	1. Lyanna

**283AC Dorne**

_Who even knows what love is?_

Lyanna Stark hears her own words echoing against the cold stone walls of the tower chamber that has become her prison. She thought she knew once when a silver-haired and silver-tongued prince whispered honeyed promises in her ear, plied her with winter roses, and sang her to sleep as though they were two young lovers and not a maiden betrothed and a man married. She thought she knew when he spoke of freedom and adoration, married her in the Isle of Faces before the weirwood and septon both to spare her dishonor of bedding her unwed. She thought she knew when he took her to bed like a woman grown, held her in his arms and took her maidenhead while muttering of fire and ice, prophecy and destiny.

But she’s not a woman grown, and she knows now this is not love.

_Love is sweet, but it cannot change a man’s nature._

She said that once too and believes it more now than she had then watching the betrothed that proclaimed his love to all bed serving girls, whores, and highborn ladies alike with voracious appetite and not a shred of honor to be found. Watching her brother Ned pine respectfully over Lady Ashara Dayne while her beloved elder brother, Brandon, took her to bed a sennight before his wedding to Catelyn Tully. Watching a perfect prince of the realm crown her Queen of Love and Beauty before his wife, his lords, and his gods, shaming them both no matter the reason offered. Watching her father and brother both force her into a marriage both unacceptable and unwanted under the guise of protecting her.

She thinks she might know now, cradling the gray-eyed, black-haired babe to her breast. He’s quiet as the grave, has been since coming into the world too early and without much fanfare. His small hand grips her finger, eyes staring into hers, half-lidded from exhaustion. Beautiful and perfect and no Visenya. This is not her husband’s child of prophecy, his third head of the dragon, his precious Visenya to some unholy trinity of the conqueror and his sister-wives reborn. Her babe is no purple-eyed, silver-haired dragon, but a dark haired, gray eyed direwolf. Looking on his face, she has never been so in love or so afraid.

_Do you love him?_

Ser Arthur Dayne had whispered the question to her weeks ago, long after she’d been wedded, bedded, and heavy with his prince’s third child. She respected Ser Gerold, liked Ser Oswell, but Ser Arthur is the only Kingsguard allowed to ask such questions, prying and probing, devastating to its core. Unlike the others, he’d never looked at her with that combination of pity and disdain but an acceptable sort of tender thoughtfulness. He’d taken her riding on a spirited Dornish mare along the beach and corrected her forms when she dared pick up a practice sword until she became too pregnant to do things she once enjoyed. Then, he’d sat with her on the beach telling her stories of his sisters and Starfall while she cursed her way through embroidery and flipped through Rhaegar’s collection of ancient Targaryen books.

It had been in those books and scrolls his mutterings over prophecy and insistence that her child would be a daughter came to a startling clarity. It had been in those books and scrolls the resentment she’d been trying desperately to purge at escaping one marriage to find herself in another, brother and father dead, and trapped in a tower worlds away from her rooted and festered.

Her whole life uprooted, family broken, realm shattered over a fucking prophecy.

Gods, she was a child.

She resented Rhaegar for his madness, not as sinister as Aerys’s but destructive just the same. She resented her father and Ned for forcing a betrothal with a lustful man for little more than alliances prompting her desperate escape in the first place. She resented Lysa Tully and Brandon for somehow making a mess of her letter explaining the circumstances. She resented Arthur, Oswell, and Gerold for keeping her locked here, Rhaegar’s broodmare for his daughter of prophecy. She resented the child she carried for existing with Rhaegar’s tainted Targaryen blood coursing through its veins. She resented, rather unfairly, Princess Elia for being weak and barren, unable to produce a third child to satisfy her mad husband’s obsessions. She resented herself for not riding north beyond the wall to become a spearwife for her freedom rather than placing trust in treacherous men, for her childishness and the sweet songs of love and chivalry Old Nan used to entertain her with that made her believe Rhaegar’s words of love over his actions.

No, she doesn’t love Rhaegar, but she thinks she loves his son, loves him even more for not being a girl, for not looking like a Targaryen, for denying Rhaegar his prophecy. Loves him so much she considers the consequences in a way she hadn’t when running away, wedding the crown prince, allowing him to set aside his wife and steal her freedom and start a war over her and her decisions.

The Dornish say they aren’t like the rest of Westeros, won’t punish a bastard for the passions of its parents, but this bastard is legitimate, born beneath the shadow of a war begun by her disappearance and of actions that brought shame upon Princess Elia, and threatens the half-Dornish heir by existence alone.

Then there’s Rhaegar who may be fond of her in the way a man whose pinned all his hopes on her womb could be. He’s fond of the woman who will bear his child of prophecy, the woman—the _girl_ —who will produce a daughter to stand beside his venerated son, Aegon the Conqueror reborn, and help him wake dragons from stone and fight the mythical darkness. Fondness will neither protect her nor her son when he looks upon them and finds all his plotting has led to naught. A little northern boy not a little Targaryen girl, and a girl as his wife with no ability to rule or politick, upsetting Dorne, the North, the Westerlands, and most of the other kingdoms.

Even if his fondness is enough to accept her son, she will never be free and neither will her child. Rhaegar will bend to Dorne to atone for the slight, her son will be mistreated and distrusted by the realm, a second son by an ambitious second wife is all they’ll see, a Blackfyre in all but name, a threat to Dorne’s darling Targaryen promised prince, and she’ll spend her life in a viper’s pit, courtly and demure, weathering the machinations of every man and woman in the realm. If only she thought of this before, considered more than Rhaegar’s sweet words and unrealistic promises, he could no more keep than Robert would have tried.

She has been played a fool, and the fault lies with her alone.

Her and Rhaegar.

The door opens, and Lyanna clutches her son closer, drawing a dagger from beneath her pillow and pointing it at Ser Arthur the way he’d taught her.

He looms in the doorway, the Sword of the Morning, dark silver hair cut short and purple eyes so similar to Rhaegar, but Ser Arthur is broader, harder, more rugged, a warrior in disposition as much as build, a knight not a bard, with a gaze that is intensely present where Rhaegar lives in melancholy and dreams. His white scaled armor gleams in the fading light, Dawn at his hip, and eyes wide when he notices her beside the window, dagger brandished and babe clutched to her breast.

“Princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, exhausted and terrified and poised to run.

“My lady,” he tries, taking a step towards her.

“Stay back,” she hisses. He follows her orders, eyes never leaving hers. “Stay away.”

“My lady,” says Arthur, cautious but not soothing. If only it wasn’t Arthur. Oswell or Gerold didn’t know her well enough to see this wasn’t madness that occasionally accompanied birthing, it wasn’t grief borne of her losses or terror at the prospect of losing Rhaegar to Robert’s warhammer. This is cold and calculated, hard and desperate but in a manner that makes her dangerous to them not to herself or the babe. “The rebellion has ended, my lady. Your brother lives. Rhaegar must maintain peace in the capital, but he will come for you.”

The grim set to his lips assures her that he knows how little this comforts her.

She grows stiffer, the babe wiggling in her arms, though he remains quiet in his typical fashion.

“And what happens now?” Arthur watches her silently. “Now that I’ve helped him set the Westeros on fire for a prophecy I don’t even believe in. Did he consider that? Did he care? Did he ever consider, even for a moment, that he might be wrong?”

Arthur’s answering silence is heavy with horrified realization.

“The babe…”

“A boy.” She laughs, a wet, broken sound. Her dagger lowers, and Arthur steps closer, stopping when she shifts her blade upwards towards him. “A prince. You’re Dornish, so tell me, how much will Dorne endure? Princess Elia disgraced and set aside, a half northern prince so close to Aegon’s age, a war fought in my name whatever the true reasons, how much will Dorne endure or will Oberyn ensure my babe dies with the year. Tell me!”

Arthur inhales sharply and sits on the edge of her bed, sheets stripped to be laundered after the birth. He hangs his head, thoughtful and solemn.

The longer Lyanna looks at him, the more she softens, anger abating beneath the consideration she sees on his brow. She’s too fond of him to hold onto such swift, burning anger. Trusts him despite the atrocities he’s stood beside as silent sentinel, the crimes he’s helped his king and prince commit, the lies he’s perpetuated in their name. She thinks loyalty might be a harder thing than even love to turn one's back on. Loyalty to one’s kin, one’s duty, one’s honor, which takes precedence? She knows he’s helped Rhaegar play her a fool, helped him ruin her and her family and the realm, helped him manipulate a girl into believing herself in love with Rhaegar by speaking of his chivalry, his love, his intentions. She also knows he’s stood by her side through the duration of her pregnancy, fetched a maester against Rhaegar’s orders when the midwife warned of complications during the birth, and entertained the parts of her most men thought could be swept away in marriage, children, and keeping house.

Even now, Rhaegar in the riverlands and Lyanna’s Visenya a boy with the look of the north, she trusts Arthur.

“What do you want to do, Lyanna?”

Their eyes meet, and her arm wavers, knife lowering. Tears well in her eyes as she shakes her head, feeling ever bit her age of five and ten, a married prince’s babe heavy in her arms, and lost in a strange land in kingdom she likely doesn’t even recognize anymore.

“What’s there to do? My father’s dead, my reputation ruined, my son’s a threat. And Rhaegar, noble Prince Rhaegar,” she mocks, “lives in his prophecies. He doesn’t love me, does he?”

Arthur winces and sighs. “He thinks he does.”

“It won’t survive the death of his prophetic dreams.” Lyanna says with a sad smile, coming to sit beside Arthur on the bed, her eyes on the setting sun out the window of the aptly named Tower of Joy she wants to burn to its ashes along with the misery that consumed her while she lived within its walls. “What would you do if you were the prince—”

“King,” corrects Arthur woodenly. Lyanna’s gaze returns to him, cool and bleak. “Ser Jaime killed King Aerys.”

“King, then. What would you do if your second wife had a son that threatened the position of your promised prince instead of a daughter, her existence supposedly began a war and now she’s supposed to sit beside you as queen, if you disgraced your first wife but need her and her country to help repair the damage to the realm?”

Arthur inhales, a sharp, quiet draw of breath, and meets her gaze. His eyes hard and stern, cold and assessing.

“I would declare your son a bastard and set you aside.” Lyanna’s eyes fill, but tears don’t fall. She sets her jaw and nods, waiting for the rest of words on the tip of Arthur’s tongue, determined to stand strong in face of her uncertain future. “He can’t risk alienating Dorne, not now, and you’re not skilled enough in King’s Landing politics to make you an asset as a queen. The north will be upset because Rhaegar forsaking his vows and taking you to Dorne caused Lord Rickard and Brandon’s deaths, the Stormlands will see it as an insult to Robert Baratheon making his death unjustified, the Vale and Riverlands are too closely allied not to be upset. Dorne is counting on having their blood on throne, and Rhaegar needs a third head to his dragon to support his promised prince, your son is a threat to both. And you’re a woman. Easier to say you ran away from Aerys after he learned you’re the Knight of the Laughing Tree, got caught up in the moment, and then hid away to birth the prince’s bastard. No one will say anything against him, and the only people who know the truth is the Kingsguard whose loyalty is to Rhaegar and the High Septon who’ll not speak against his king.”

Pale and shaken, Lyanna nods her head, fingers playing with her baby’s absently.

“As I expected.”

Arthur looks apologetic, even regretful, but Lyanna is in no mood for apologies. She is tired and scared and angry at Rhaegar, at herself, at men in general. Arthur’s words are true. Half the realm will paint her a seductress, the other half will paint her as a naïve little girl, but the result will remain the same, she’ll be trapped at Winterfell, haunting its halls like a ghost, her son raised a bastard and looked down upon by all the Seven Kingdoms for either being born to unmarried parents or the people that started a war over love. It’s no life for a child, and she’d rather die than see her child’s destiny be confined to a future serving on the Wall with rapists and murderers.

“Lyanna,” says Arthur softly, drawing her attention back to him, “what would you like to do?”

She’d like to go back to sneaking into the woods with her brother to fight with sticks like they’re swords and ride her horse through Wintertown and the rolling hills of the north. She’d like to go back to a time before she met Rhaegar Targaryen, been enchanted by his soft smiles and beautiful songs, his handsome face and false promises. She’d like to have ridden north with Benjen and escaped beyond the Wall to live with the wildlings, wield a weapon like a spearwife, and be stolen by a man that makes his intentions known first and true. She’d like to go home to Winterfell and find her father and brothers waiting for her.

“I want my son to live,” is what she says instead in a girlish whisper, unsure how to articulate that she means _truly_ live rather than be hidden away in Winterfell as the king’s bastard, the boy that tore the realm apart, whose single path leads straight to a lifetime of servitude in a dying order at the Wall.

Arthur’s eyes soften, gaze falling to the boy in her lap, silently fussing and big gray eyes staring up at them trustingly, brow wrinkled and lips pursed. A slight smile turns up the corners of his lips before his gaze returns to Lyanna, dagger settled across the swaddled babe, easy to reach to defend her babe from anyone, even the Kingsguard, even Rhaegar.

It’s a sad state of affairs, she thinks, to look at a babe born early, whose not yet lived a week and see its life stretching out before her, each potential future bleaker than the next, where a lifetime serving the Night’s Watch is the optimistic future. She sees the heartbreak in Arthur’s eyes, the same devastation she’d once seen in hers when she realized the man she’d followed blindly and put her faith and love into isn’t who she believed him to be. It’s worse for Arthur, who’d followed Rhaegar far longer and for purer reasons, believing him to be the better Targaryen than Aerys. Maybe he is, but his brand of madness is no less destructive and far more insidious.

Arthur stands, brows furrowed and face set with resolve. The baby coos, and his eyes drop from Lyanna’s to the babe’s, gaze softening but the resolve seeming to harden.

“I have to send a raven, my lady, but if they ask, the babe is a girl, a princess…”

“A Visenya,” agrees Lyanna, eyes on his billowing white cloak as he turns to the door. “Ser Arthur,” he stops, hand on the door, head turning though he doesn’t look at her, “thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first work in the Game of Thrones fandom. I've been a fan of the Lyanna/Rhaegar pairing a lot longer than the Lyanna/Arthur pairing, and I don't hate Rhaegar. This is a lot more friendly to Elia and Lyanna than to Rhaegar, certainly, but even loving the Rhaegar/Lyanna pairing I struggle with how much of his infatuation with her was because of genuine love and how much revolved around this prophecy of the prince that was promised, which is majorly what this story explores. At the end of the day, Lyanna was still very young even by Westerosi standards when she and Rhaegar began their courtship. We all make decisions, and how culpable a child who was wild like Arya yet still as impressionable as Sansa at the beginning of the series is something that will be discussed for at least the first several chapters. The goal is to cover the whole gamut from Lyanna's birth in the Tower of Joy to Jon defeating the Night King. I'll update the tags as we go because I don't really know where this is heading. I've written quite a few chapters, but I'm not certain where I plan to end up, who I'll pair Jon with (except not family because I'm making a point about incest and the Targaryen line). This is based almost completely on the show; I tried to read the books but like a lot of high fantasy, it felt very slow to me, so anything that comes from the books has been researched upon encountering it elsewhere throughout the fandom. I take research very seriously, but this is my guilty pleasure story while I'm off college classes for the summer and stuck at home and not in Alaska so if you see something very off feel free to let me know, but otherwise I'm just out here to express my love for Lyanna, Arthur Dayne, Jon Snow, dragons and direwolves.


	2. Arthur

Gone is the lively, gorgeous sister Arthur knows. The woman standing in her place is a husk, a shell of the beautiful woman he once knew, dark hair lank and dull, eyes red and empty of the life that used to sparkle in their depths. She travels with only a small chest that she holds in her lap despite the awkwardness of the position. When she sees him, her eyes well with tears. She clambers down from the saddle, gently placing the box on the ground before she throws herself into his arms, clutching him desperately with a broken sob.

“Sister,” he says, cupping her gaunt face in his hands, “you look well.”

She laughs brokenly and shakes her head. “Liar, I look terrible, I know it well, I feel worse.”

“I’m glad to see you regardless.”

“Yes,” says Ashara, waving a dismissive hand, “I imagine you must be. Glad to see your little sister for the sake of Rhaegar’s whore.”

“Ashara,” he scolds, tone hard and unforgiving.

“She disgraced Princess Elia. She is the reason the realm is at war. She is—”

“A girl, Ashara,” he corrects, “a girl of five and ten betrothed to Robert Baratheon to strengthen alliances to overthrow King Aerys. You know this as well as I. You know Robert Baratheon.”

Ashara scowls and looks away, arms crossed over her waist, unwilling to admit she understands Lyanna’s fears, her desire to escape, her girlish dreams and unrealistic desires.

Arthur remembers when he first saw Lyanna Stark at Harrenhall, hours before her spirit enchanted Rhaegar. He hadn’t thought her particularly beautiful like the stories will likely speak of her. At fourteen, she’d been spindly and almost boyish, hair tied back in a messy braid, pale skin streaked with sweat and dirt, lanky frame draped in an oversized tunic and breeches that she must have stolen from her brother. She’d ridden a headstrong stallion around a clearing on the tourney grounds, expression thunderous and eyes blazing while her youngest brother, Benjen, sat on a fence and recounted stories of Winterfell with a young northern lad Arthur thought highborn but wasn’t certain of. Fearless, wild, untamable, she’d been thrown from the saddle more times in that fifteen minutes than in all the times he’d ridden, yet each time she climbed back on, again and again until the horse settled its temper and allowed her to lead.

He’d seen that horse later beneath the Knight of the Laughing Tree unseating first the knight of House Haigh, then House Blount, then House Frey for an anonymous knight in mismatched armor and below average height, seen it carrying away that knight while Aerys raged at Rhaegar to find him…her.

Lyanna Stark is a great many things—reckless and headstrong, boisterous and proud—but she isn‘t malicious, isn’t ambitious, isn’t conniving. Disgracing Elia was not an intentional choice. Arthur might argue that it is, in fact, Rhaegar’s decision, Rhaegar’s action, Rhaegar’s choice. She was, perhaps, selfish, short-sighted, even shallow, but nothing she has done has been in pursuit of a throne or done with the intent to harm Elia.

Not like Rhaegar who is a man grown with a wife, children, and responsibilities who’d risked everything to chase a prophecy and a girl as close in age to Rhaenys as to Rhaegar. A girl whose affections he’d manipulated, whose dreams he’d preyed on, whose hopes he’d stroked to achieve his ends without thought or care for the damage left in his wake.

_She loves me_ , he’d said when Arthur had questioned him after the death of Brandon, the death of Lord Rickard. _Love can forgive anything._

_And do you love her?_

_How could I not_? Rhaegar had whispered the words with a wistful smile, fingers stroking the strings of his harp.

How could any man not love Lyanna Stark?

Arthur understood it but didn’t approve any more after hearing the whispered confession. Because he didn’t believe it, though Rhaegar did, certainly. 

Lyanna is everything Elia is not, wild, bright, exhilarating, free. She doesn’t ascribe to courtly manners though she understands them, she’d rather wield a sword than needles, wear breeches than dresses, ride horses than take tea with ladies. Taking her to wife was baffling. She seemed more suited to the wife of a pirate or a sellsword, a man who allowed much of her time to be her own and expected her to be capable of independence. She isn’t the type to exchange barbs with other ladies over wine and embroidery or play the game with a sweet smile and subtle backstab.

She speaks straight and true, an honorable, straightforward girl of the north but still just a girl whose seen little of the world outside the walls of Winterfell and vastness of the north. She looks at the world around her with wide-eyed wonder and asks questions that would stump even a maester, digging into the hows and whys of the world around her in a manner both frustrating and endearing. She has a strong sense of justice that isn’t black and white, untenable willpower, and bold determination to be and do the best she can, adaptable, unpredictable, incredible, as unbowed, unbent, unbroken as a Martell.

Watching her point a dagger at him with her child in her arms was like staring into the eyes of a direwolf protecting her cub. There was no madness, no grief, just a cold certainty that she could trust none but herself with the babe in her arms, that she’d die before seeing him hurt, physically or emotionally. She’s strong, the strongest person Arthur knows, not beautiful like the songs say, he thinks that even now, but her strength is intoxicating, her ability to learn and adapt and analyze all while avoiding the nuances of the game. She’s no ambitious woman that will use this child to dethrone Princess Elia or shove Prince Aegon out of the line of succession. She wants a life of freedom and potential for her child, a life she feels herself deprived of, where he can live free of the shame being borne of Rhaegar’s tainted love and the name of a bastard.

Arthur's mother once said there’s no love purer than a mother for her child, and for all the dishonorable things he’s done for Rhaegar, to Lyanna, he owes her this much at least.

“That is no excuse!” Ashara rages while Arthur watches her with quiet patience, her face red and lips pressed tight in anger. “We all must do our duty to our house, must maintain our honor despite our age. All highborn girls know this.”

“Is that what you would say if Lyanna was your daughter?”

The question brings Ashara up short. She pales, stricken, and exhales a shuttering breath, stepping away from him. Her legs quiver, and Arthur catches her before she collapses, alarmed by the sudden change in his sister. Her hands clench on the fabric of his tunic, and she presses her face to his chest and sobs, breathless and broken until she runs out of tears and her throat grows hoarse. He holds her until her sobs turn to sniffles, hand rubbing her back until her breathing evens out, and she steps away from him with a shaky sigh.

“The world isn’t kind to women,” says Ashara softly, “I know that, but it doesn’t excuse what she did.”

“What Rhaegar did,” snaps Arthur, gentle as he can but admonishing nonetheless. Ashara looks shocked, as shocked as he feels to say the words aloud, chastising and disapproving towards the actions of his closest friend. For years he’s followed Rhaegar, believed in him, but he wonders now how much he didn’t see because between Rhaegar and Aerys, even Rhaegar and Viserys, Rhaegar is always the better choice. How much of this madness rose to the surface after learning Elia would never birth his third child, after meeting Lyanna, the ice to his fire, and how much has always been bubbling beneath the surface? How great a king could he ever be when he set the realm on fire for a prophecy that’s haunted his family for generations, that saw Rhaella raped by her brother-husband and gave purpose to the tragedy of Summerhall from which Rhaegar was birthed.

“Rhaegar is married with children. He’s a prince of the realm. He’s a man grown. Yes, Lyanna knows he’s married, but she’s a girl of five and ten that longs for freedom, for choice. She’s a girl seduced by the promise of freedom whispered to her by a prince the realm knows as handsome and noble and valiant whose protected her from his mad father, listened to her grievances, and validated her feelings the way no one else has. Rhaegar set Elia aside. Rhaegar burned the realm for dreams and prophecy. Rhaegar dragged all of us into this with him and damned the consequences for Elia, for Lyanna, for himself, for me.”

Ashara presses her lips together and examines Arthur in that knowing, quiet way he’d hated as a child as much as he does now. She watches him with a mute certainty she has understood something within him he’s neither ready nor willing to accept. The derision, though, is absent from her gaze, the disgust and disdain for Lyanna that rankles him so much he wonders how he’ll bare the next few decades knowing her name will be whispered the same throughout the Seven Kingdoms, in brothels and castles from the Wall to Dorne. The King’s Whore, they’ll call her, the selfish woman that made the realm bleed and disgraced sweet, sickly Queen Elia, but she isn’t and didn’t.

“She’s a girl. And he’s a prince.”

Ashara tilts her head and laughs beneath her breath.

“My dear brother, how do you see this ending? What will you do? What will she?”

_What will Rhaegar?_ She doesn’t ask the question, but he hears it just the same.

“Arthur, Lyanna Stark isn’t so different from me, as you’re been so keen on reminding me.” He grimaces in the face of her bitterness, but she cuts him off before he can apologize with a swift shake of her head and long-suffering sigh. “She’s a highborn girl of five and ten, as you keep reminding me,” he sighs while Ashara offers a familiar smirk that lightens his heart. “She knows nothing of the world. She was raised to marry a lord and bear him children. How is she expected to raise a child alone and in disguise and in Essos?” Arthur looks at her sharply, and she huffs. “She can’t stay here! Rhaegar will search for her, you know he will, she bore him a child. He married her! Set Elia aside for her! He’ll look for her Arthur, and she can’t raise a child alone and running from Rhaegar, Doran and Oberyn, and all of Westeros.”

Ashara is correct, of course, as she often is.

It’s not enough for Lyanna to go missing with the babe in tow. Certain of his prophecy as he is, he’ll search for her, and Arthur worries for her safety when Rhaegar finds her and learns she’d run not with a Visenya but a trueborn son with the Targaryen name. If Arthur says the babe dies, then he’ll have to separate her from the child. Rhaegar will set her aside, but she’ll remain forever tainted and hated and alienated from the child. It’s feasible but not preferred. The safest place in that circumstance would be sending the babe with Ashara to Starfall. Bastards do well in Dorne, better than if the babe went north with her brother, but keeping that secret in Dorne was a risk, especially when he’d been so close to Oberyn and Doran should they learn the truth.

No, Lyanna and the babe both would have to die to truly be safe, but with Oswell and Gerold watching, faking her death would be difficult. Even if he burnt the tower, he’d need bodies, need to move them without being seen. But, then, what would she do for coin? How would she live overseas as a dead woman with her son? Close as she was to her family, she would want to contact Benjen Stark at the very least. He would tell Eddard. If Ned felt a shred of affection for Catelyn Tully, he’d tell her, and once word reached Catelyn Tully, Arthur could predict nothing at all. Starks, at least, are honorable enough to be predictable, but would 'Family, Duty, Honor' apply to Lyanna’s babe or only Catelyn’s newborn heir to Winterfell and the other children she’d birth Eddard Stark?

“Tell me truly, Arthur, what is this girl to you?”

Arthur stiffens at his sister’s question and tries to ignore the pang that’s gone through him since Rhaegar had seen her hurriedly stripping off her mismatched armor in the forest and called her name with some mixture of awe and understanding. Since she’d fallen off a stallion into the dirt, shaken herself off, put her hands on her hips and regarded the horse with a challenging smile before swinging herself into the saddle again.

“She’s a girl.”

Rhaegar’s girl. Rhaegar’s lover. Rhaegar’s wife. The mother of Rhaegar’s son.

“She isn’t,” replies Ashara dismissively, “not since Rhaegar wedded and bedded her. Not since she birthed a child and watched her dreams shatter before her eyes. Not since she placed the welfare of her child over the hopes she once held.”

“I swore a vow.”

“And what of this vow?” Ashara demands heatedly, whirling on him with fire in her eyes that he feared had been doused beneath the weight of the loss crushing her. “This vow to that thrice damned chair. King Aerys set innocents on fire and raped his sister-wife. Prince Rhaegar disgraced his wife, threw the realm into war, and ruined a girl for prophecy. What use are these vows if they protect the perpetuators of crimes the rest of Westeros would be punished for?”

“I cannot afford to answer your question, Ashara, you know I cannot.”

“Just like you couldn’t afford to pursue Brandon Stark when he dishonored me so? Why? Because Rhaegar Targaryen needed the support of the lords to usurp his father’s throne or because he needed their confidence before spiriting their daughter away to birth him the third head of his dragon?”

“She’s Rhaegar’s wife,” he says with mounting frustration.

“So was Princess Elia! A noble woman of weak constitution but strong character. A woman we used to play with in the Water Gardens of Sunspear when we were children. Or have you forgotten past loyalties now that you’ve tied yourself to Rhaegar Targaryen?”

Arthur grips the reins of her horse and starts back towards the Tower of Joy, eyes narrowed on where it rises in the distance in the shadow of the mountains.

Ashara huffs, some of that dogged spirit returning. She swipes the box from the ground and marches after him, stomping loudly the whole way. Arthur hides a tiny smirk, wiping it away before she reaches his side and looks up at him with certainty born of a lifetime together that he was laughing at her.

“Is her protection more important than Rhaegar’s?”

“Rhaegar is king,” comes Arthur’s unhelpful reply.

“Than Elia’s?”

“I’m certain with King Aerys dead and the rebellion ended, Queen Elia has sufficient guard to protect herself and her children.”

“Than Queen Rhaella’s?”

The stoicism he’s spent so many years cultivating in service to the Kingsguard erodes away in minutes. Once again he returns to the harried elder brother he’d been in Starfall, dodging his baby sister’s eager questions and insistence he play with her between training with the master-at-arms and lessons with the maester. He heaves an annoyed sigh coming to an abrupt halt to whirl on her with irritation that makes her eyes sparkle with mirth, lips turning upwards on the edges in a tiny yet undeniably smug smirk.

“Have you finished?”

“You prioritize Rhaegar’s politically poisonous second wife and son over your closest friend and king, his wife our queen, the queen mother and both her children. You need not answer what this girl is to you, brother, it’s already become quite clear.”

“She deserves better than being picked apart by the realm and cast aside for Rhaegar’s machinations.”

Ashara purses her lips.

“My feelings haven’t changed, Arthur. Girl or not, she cannot be absolved of her part in this madness, but I love and respect you enough to support you even when I believe you to be making tremendous mistakes you may not live to regret.”

Arthur sighs and hangs his head for a moment, the heat of the fading Dornish sun hot upon the back of his neck. His gaze returns to Ashara, then to the box cradled in her hands.

“What’s in the box, sister?”

A sad, watery smile spreads across his sister’s lips.

“Lyarra Sand. My babe. Brandon’s babe.” Arthur feels stricken for a moment, his confusion lasting the barest moment before his heart swells at his sister’s thoughtfulness, her empathy, her heart. However she feels for Lyanna Stark, for the circumstances surrounding the birth of her son, she’s no bitter woman, friend of Elia’s or not, to let another suffer for past mistakes. “You plan like a man. Like a knight. It has no place here, though.”

Ashara holds her head high and walks forward to the tower with the chest cradled to her.

_Not a girl since she’d been wedded and bedded._

Arthur watches his sister’s retreating figure with pride. His sister too is a woman grown, molded in disappointment of being cuckholded by a man she thought honorable, betrayed by those she thought would remain true for a lifetime, and lost to the overwhelming grief of losing her child. She’s long been a woman, he supposes, but much like Lady Lyanna she’s no longer the naïve, innocent child that believed the honeyed whispers of noble men.

That girl is gone.

Thundering hooves and a cloud of dust rising in the distance startles Arthur. He hurries to catch up with Ashara, grabbing her arm and holding her still, eyes following the retinue of horses racing down Prince’s Pass towards the tower.

“Perhaps they mean to pass…” offers Ashara gently.

A cold feeling settles in the bottom of Arthur’s stomach, and he passes the reins of the horse to his sister.

“Stay out of sight,” he warns, racing back to tower and leaving his sister behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing fast and loose with the timeline here. Lyanna, I intentionally had her give birth to Jon a little earlier so that she's had some time to really critically reflect on her expectations, her future, and her fears. This isn't spur-of-the-moment she's considered the full range of possibilities and consequences now that she has a son to protect. Ashara, I'm not sure exactly when she gave birth to her stillborn daughter, I'm not even sure if it's been confirmed who that child's father was, but I need her baby to be born earlier for this specifically. Ashara definitely doesn't like Lyanna and doesn't think she's nearly as much of a victim as Arthur does, but she's also a woman that just lost her baby and lived in King's Landing with the royal family and knows that Jon's in a politically precarious position right now. I've read lots of stories about Rhaegar living and Lyanna living where he just brings her and Jon into the castle. This is fanfiction, and I'm into it, but I also just don't see it as a possibility after their actions helped destroy the realm (you know aside from Petyr Baelish withholding important information and Aerys setting people on fire). I just find it difficult to believe Dorne would accept that after everything, and that Dorne wouldn't be important in the rebuilding effort after the war and their loyalty not important for Rhaegar to prepare for this prophetic apocalypse.


	3. Ned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where I freely admit I have never written a fanfiction in a fandom that gets so heated for zero reason. These are not real people whose reputations I'm disparaging; they're characters in a book and a television show so, I don’t know why I have to point this out but if you don’t like Lyanna Stark at all, I don’t know why you’re here. She made mistakes, she ran off with another woman’s husband, she was also fifteen and desperate to escape Robert Baratheon so regardless of the time period, she’s still a child and you will never convince me she’s more responsible than Rhaegar for teenage decision making. If you don’t like the plot or characterizations, stop reading, I didn’t force you to come here; I'm writing this to have fun which is the same reason you should be reading it; if you're not enjoying the story just stop reading. This story is not Elia-centric, because I'm more interested in the Starks and Jon than King's Landing and the Targaryens/Martells, that doesn't mean I hate Elia, it doesn't mean I'm bashing Elia, it doesn't mean I support what happened to Elia, it means I'm focusing where I want to focus and not in King's Landing with Elia and Rhaegar. I will respond to questions and thoughtful commentary but not outrage and anger. I will talk about Arthur and his decisions just once at the end of this chapter. After that if you have questions or comments that are not rude, derogatory, or inflammatory, I will engage in a discussion not an argument. That being said Game of Thrones is such a rich world because it’s populated by human characters who are selfish and make mistakes in a way that is relatable. These characters are not perfect, and they're not going to be. They have opinions that, right or wrong, are theirs. This is fiction not a fanasyland.

The anger Ned feels is dwarfed only by the anxiety, vacillating back and forth with alarming frequency since abandoning King’s Landing for the Red Mountains of Dorne in search of his sister. When he thinks of Rhaegar Targaryen, that gleeful glimmer in his eye when he mentioned Ned’s only sister, he feels a rage that eclipses even what he felt for the Mad King who’d murdered both his father and his brother, the dismissive way Rhaegar waved his hand and told Ned if he wanted her immediately, then he could go fetch her...like a dog, bring her to King’s Landing to speak with her king. Anxiety for the way both Oberyn and Queen Elia looked to him with fury and warning.

What has his sister become involved in?

His rather ambivalent feelings towards Targaryens becomes distrusting and even antagonistic the deeper he rides into Dorne accompanied by the six northmen brought with him. Curse Rhaegar for spiriting his sister away from her family, her betrothed, curse him for sending Ned and his retinue south further still than cursed King’s Landing and the Crownlands, curse him for offering nothing but a nonchalant dismissal and a name Ned isn’t certain he was meant to know.

The Tower of Joy.

A feeling of dread settles in him. Perhaps he isn’t meant to be here at all, perhaps Rhaegar Targaryen hadn’t meant to send him to retrieve his sister, but Ned, in his desperation to see her after almost a year, took the words to mean more than he should. The deeper into Dorne they ride, the more certain he is that King Rhaegar hadn’t meant for him to fetch his sister at all, but it’s too late to turn back now, he wouldn’t anyway.

More than a year he’s hidden Ned’s only sister and prompted a war none had wanted to fight. Even now he wouldn’t send for her, wouldn’t give her into the care and safety of her family. Even now, Ned has to ride to the southernmost point of Westeros to retrieve his dearest family member because Rhaegar Targaryen can’t be bothered to return her to her family.

The tower rises amongst the mountains, standing solitary and alone.

This is where his sister has been hidden all this time?

She must hate such a place, he thinks. Locked away in a tower rather than free to run and ride and fight. Always a free spirit, Lyanna is. She loved open land and brisk weather, riding surly mounts across the fields with her hair unbound and space enough to do as she pleased. This Tower of Joy looks like a prison, surrounded by mountains and red sand and Kingsguard that wait at the base without his sister anywhere in sight. He’d been uncertain of the rumors abounding of Rhaegar’s kidnap of Lyanna, for her temperament as much as his, but seeing this tower, this landscape, this scene, he can’t help but wonder if he’d overestimated Lyanna and underestimated Rhaegar’s Targaryen blood.

Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Arthur Dayne wait for them in their dazzling white scaled armor. The Black Bat, the White Bull, and the Sword of Morning.

Accompanied by six men, Ned thinks he ought to have brought more.

“We looked for you on the Trident,” says Ned, eyes moving between the Kingsguard.

“We weren’t there,” says Ser Oswell.

“The King is dead.”

“Long live the king,” answers Ser Gerold.

“Where is my sister?” Ned demands of Ser Arthur, forgoing all pleasantries.

There’s a moment of hesitation in Arthur Dayne. He looks to his companions, the briefest flicker of his eyes, but Ser Gerold remains stone-faced and stern in the face of Ned and his retinue. He’d expected no help there, not from the man who’d followed Mad King Aerys blindly, loyal to the throne no matter which madman sits upon it. Ser Oswell clenches his jaw, no more inclined to offer Ned assistance than Ser Gerold had been. Another spike of anxiety courses through him at what so bad has happened to his sister that the Kingsguard are willing to fight and die to keep him from his own kin.

“She’s my blood,” argues Ned with frustration and desperation. He’s so close. “The war is over.”

“And you were the usurper’s dog,” spits Ser Gerold with fury.

Arthur grimaces.

“Rhaegar stole my sister!”

“Rhaegar is your king,” returns Ser Oswell.

“Lyanna is _my_ sister! She doesn’t belong to Rhaegar, king or no. She belongs with her family. We need not die today. All I ask is to take my sister home.”

The answering silence is grim and heavy.

At his side, Howland tilts his head towards the window of the tower, eyebrows furrowed and expression thoughtful. Ser Arthur watches him with a dark look that Howland either doesn’t notice or outright ignores.

Ned draws his sword with the rest of his men.

The Kingsguard draws theirs.

“And now it begins,” says Ser Arthur.

“No,” corrects Ned, “now it ends.”

The battle is swift and costly, and they’re hopelessly outmatched before they even begin. For the lives of Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold, he loses five of his own, cut down and butchered while he deals with the Sword of the Morning. He fights with desperation and determination that would offer him an edge against a lesser swordsman, but Ser Arthur is not a lesser swordsman. It allows him to stand against the legendary Kingsguard far longer than he would ordinarily, but Ned is no great swordsman and there’s none better in all of Westeros than Ser Arthur Dayne, the man standing between Ned and his sister.

He’s disarmed, the legendary white blade of Dawn kissing the skin of his neck, heart pounding and a strange look crossing Ser Arthur’s face.

His blade wavers.

Howland appears behind him, dagger in hand.

“Stop! Please, just,” they all turn to shrill voice of Ashara Dayne, resplendent despite being tired, travel-worn, and melancholy, “stop.” She dismounts smoothly from the back of a swift, temperamental Dornish horse that tosses its head and meanders away when her feet hit the ground, a chest tucked beneath her arm as she throws herself at Howland Reed.

Howland steps back with surprising speed and agility, avoiding her touch and tucking away his knife.

“Ned,” pleads Ashara.

His heart clenches at the sound of her voice, the sight of her face, but it’s not enough to stave off the betrayal of her actions and the reminder of his new wife back in Riverrun with his heir nursing at her breast. There isn’t room in his life anymore for Ashara Dayne even if there’s room in his heart, and besides, there had never been room enough in hers for sweet, shy Eddard Stark, the second son of Winterfell.

“My sister,” demands Ned.

Arthur nods, a calculating look in the back of his eyes. Briefly, his gaze meets Ashara’s whose expression is similarly shrewd. Neither speak but nor do they prevent him from rushing up the stairs of the tower and into the chamber where an aging woman exits, quiet and careful. She moves aside to let Ned pass with scolding eyes, tutting at him when he throws the door aside and breathes for the first time in a year when he sets his eyes on his sister asleep in the bed.

Lyanna looks older now, face rounder, skin chalky in its paleness, dark rings beneath her eyes, but it’s the same Lyanna he’s always loved. She curls beneath the blankets, dark hair askew over the pillow and tangled in its typical fashion. She worries her bottom lip even in sleep, eyebrows furrowed, and yawns when she wakes, batting her gray eyes and rubbing sleep from them as she sets her gaze on the door.

“Ned?” She asks, dazed and uncertain. Lyanna sits up and moves her gaze to Arthur, softening with warmth, then Ashara, growing cold in uncertainty, then Howland with shock that has her returning her attention to Ned. “Ned, it’s really you?”

He rushes to her bedside and takes her hand.

Lyanna presses her forehead against his, smiling.

“Have you been well?”

“Recovering,” she admits.

“You’ve been ill?”

“In a manner of speaking,” hedges Lyanna, carefully. “How did you find me?”

This he doesn’t answer, isn’t certain of how to say the king of the Seven Kingdoms refused to return her to her family yet said enough to making finding her not too difficult an undertaking.

“I’ve come to bring you home.”

Lyanna’s smile dims, eyes searching for Ser Arthur Dayne’s for some sort of reassurance before returning to Ned. Tears glisten in her eyes as she shakes her head and muffles a sob.

“Dearest Ned, I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll fix it.”

Lyanna shakes her head, pulling her hand from his.

“I can’t go home.”

“Lya,” he starts but before he can finish, she moves aside the blankets and lifts a swaddled infant into her lap. He stares at the babe, stricken and horrified. The rumors of rape linger in his mind for the barest moment before he recalls her tearful confession. _I’ve made a terrible mistake…_ not rape, then, but all things considered, Ned is hesitant to call this acceptable by any means. “A bastard?”

Lyanna winces, and Ser Arthur answers, “Trueborn.”

“He set Elia aside?” Ned asks, aghast, blanching at the thought of Dorne’s fury in the face of an insult even worse than passing over Princess Elia to lay a crown of winter roses in his dear sister’s lap in front of every important lord in Westeros. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“It was supposed to be a girl,” whispers Lyanna with a cold laugh, “a Visenya.”

Ashara snorts and rolls her eyes.

Ned stiffens at Lyanna’s discomfort and turns to defend his sister, but he finds no censure there for Lyanna, not this time, not yet. This scorn is all for Prince Rhaegar, King Rhaegar, over something that Ned isn’t certain he fully understands.

“He was so certain of it.”

“He’s a fool, then,” contradicts Ned.

“No,” corrects Ashara, “he’s a madman. A different sort than Aerys but a madman all the same.”

Ned’s confusion doesn’t lessen upon Ser Arthur’s rather embarrassed explanation of Rhaegar’s obsession, his prophecy, his song of ice and fire. It’s not an unfamiliar prophecy; the north too has its own beliefs of the Long Night, the war for dawn, of Azor Azai, his Nissa Nissa, and his sword Lightbringer that brought an end to the darkness. But the north doesn’t ascribe to such stringent certainty of prophecy, content to let the gods do as they will and protect as they must. Not like in the south where the belief is largely that the gods are cruel rather than men. Men look out for themselves while the gods look out for the world, and of what Ned’s seen of men, he’d not have it any other way.

The will of the gods will be and yet some men seem so determined to force their hand.

First Summerhall and the tragedy to return dragons to the world.

Now a promised prince and a three-headed dragon, a mix of prophecy between the First Men and the Valyrians, or perhaps an adaptation, a mistranslation, or Rhaegar’s own narcissism conflating his house sigil with ancient prophecy.

The First Men had such a simple outlook: a hero, his sacrificial love, his sword. Trust the Targaryens to complicate things with dragons, salt and smoke, three children of specific gender to mirror Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives who lived hundreds of years after the original Azor Azai was said to have defeat the Night King.

_It was supposed to be a girl_.

But it isn’t.

Ned realizes the implication later than Howland. His bannerman stares at Lyanna, at the babe, at Ser Arthur with suspicion and burgeoning fear.

The North is the largest kingdom in Westeros, but Rhaegar doesn’t need the north, not like he needs Dorne, their armies, their cooperation, their support. They’re worth more money, hold more influence, and are much more dangerous than the isolated northern kingdom. Lyanna isn’t worth as much as Elia, especially not now that Rhaegar’s precious Visenya is a boy whose existence threatens the stability of a healing realm and whose gender threatens Aegon’s place in succession.

A single babe is all that stands between Lyanna’s son and the throne.

Lyanna’s marriage is all that stands between Rhaegar and peace with Dorne.

Proof of that marriage is all that stands between Rhaegar and ruin.

There is no proof, not when witnessed by a dead Ser Oswell and loyal Ser Arthur, not when the High Septon answers to the king and not the gods, not when the marriage could burn the tentative peace found in the wake of King Aerys’s death.

“I’m sorry, Ned,” whispers Lyanna at the end of explanations, “I’m so sorry.”

She ought not be sorry, Ned thinks bitterly. It should be Rhaegar pleading with him, with his sister, with Princess Elia, with Dorne for the thousands of lives lost so the crown prince could fail at fulfilling another uncertain Targaryen prophecy. So many lives ruined, sacrificed on the altar of Rhaegar’s dreams and hopes to make the tragedy of his birth into something worthwhile. Ashara is correct; Rhaegar’s a madman of a different sort.

Ned kisses Lyanna’s head and holds her babe in his arms, his nephew with the look of the north, gray eyes and dark hair and a strong grip already. He watches the world in mute fascination, eyes wide and alert. They’d taken turns holding him throughout Ser Arthur’s long-winded explanation behind Rhaegar’s inexplicable machinations. The boy had stroked his hands over Howland’s prickly stubble, tugged at Ashara’s dark locks, babbled soundlessly to Ser Arthur, and settled in his mother’s arms, content and safe. When he looks at his sister, babe in arms, he realizes the depth of his betrayals, his wrongness in supporting the belief marriage and children would tame her wildness. She doesn’t look tame, she looks ravenous, dangerous and determined to protect him no matter the cost.

Rhaegar was willing to burn the world for prophecy, but Lyanna will do the same for her son, of this much Ned is certain.

_Love is sweet, but it cannot change a man’s nature_.

Nor a woman’s, he realizes only now, far too late to change a thing. Lyanna loves her son enough to abandon her country, her family, her marriage, her future for him. Damn Rhaegar, the throne, the consequences, Lyanna’s love isn’t safe, isn’t content. It’s whole and consuming and lethal to anyone that dares challenge it.

“I can take the boy,” says Ned, finger running over the soft skin of his nephew’s pudgy cheeks. “He’s of the north, and I can raise him as my brother’s bastard, by your leave, my lady.” His eyes alight on Lady Ashara for the first time since he’s arrived, and she worries her bottom lip while Lyanna lashes out.

“No. I’ll not have it. I’ll not have my son raised a bastard, Stark or Targaryen.”

“What to be done, Lya?” Ned asks, pleading with her to consider options without pride. 

The stubborn look of refusal on her face prompts a sigh from him. He understands well enough. The North is no Dorne, but bastards do far better there than in the rest of Westeros where the Seven teach naught but greed and lustfulness for children borne out of an unsanctified union, but even in the north, there are so few options available to bastards. Ned doesn’t know his new wife well, but he knows that both her infatuation with Brandon and devotion to the Seven may not put the babe in a favorable position. But he’d be alive, safe.

“They both die,” answers Ashara fiercely, eyes flashing with rage and certainty. He wonders if she’s angry with Lyanna, wonders if at least a small portion of her determination to fake his sister and nephew’s deaths come from the desire to protect her dear friend Princess Elia and her two children in the line of succession. It hurts him to consider such things, but once the idea comes to him, it’s not so easily dismissed. She must see something in his face, because shame rouges her cheeks as she shakes her head. “What life can Lyanna live here? Where everyone thinks her a temptress whose loose morals started a war? Who couldn’t do her duty to Robert Baratheon and disgraced Princess Elia by laying with her husband? What sort of life is that, wandering Winterfell like a ghost and hated by all in Westeros? She’ll never be able to hold her son like a mother. You’d doom your sister and nephew to a life like that?”

Ned’s expression hardens.

“I’d have my family close.”

“They can return,” says Howland gently, his eyes on the babe cradled in Ned’s arms. He smiles at Lyanna, soft and fond, that she returns with tears welling in her eyes. “In five years, perhaps ten depending, when the wounds have healed and the war a distant memory. Exile, yes, but not one of a permanent nature. You will return, my lady, you and your son. I dare say you’ll have to.”

A cold feeling spreads through Ned at Howland’s words. He chances a glance towards Lyanna, watching Howland with wary consideration, but his eyes are drawn to Ser Arthur, hand on Dawn’s hilt as he steps closer to Lyanna. Ashara raises her brows while Lyanna shakes her head and offers Ser Arthur a slight smile that drains the tension from his body. He releases his grip on the sword and leans against the wall.

“Where is she to go? A woman alone with a newborn babe in Essos?” Ned demands.

“She won’t be alone,” volunteers Ser Arthur.

“Arthur,” argues Lyanna softly. He spares her a glance but shakes his head, not to be swayed by her attempts to release him from this self-imposed duty.

“You, Ser?” Ned scoffs while Ashara’s face darkens in defense of her brother. “You’re Kingsguard.”

“I’m dead,” returns Ser Arthur with a shrug of his shoulder, “unless anyone here will be speaking any different?” A grim silence is all that follows his words. Ser Arthur nods and continues as though Ned had never voiced his dissent, “We can’t go to Pentos, too many Westerosi visit there for trade. Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr are almost as dangerous. The Dornish frequent those cities, Oberyn especially.”

“He’ll recognize you,” agrees Ashara, “and ask dangerous questions.”

“Volantis?”

“Maybe in a few years,” Howland answers Lyanna, “but the boy’s coloring—and yours—would certainly stand out there, and I don’t like how close it is to Dorne regardless. No Braavos is best for now I think. Braavos or Norvos, but it’s best to be close to the sea, close to the Neck. It’s not so common a destination for Westerosi save for experienced tradesmen.”

“Braavos,” mutters Lyanna thoughtfully, shrugging her shoulders and looking to Ser Arthur. “And how do we get there?”

A strange smile spreads across Howland’s face as he says, “I know just the man. You’ll find him in Wyl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, Ned sees Rhaegar as the more responsible party here partly because he's older, he's crown prince, he's married, and he's not Ned's sister. I have a younger brother, and I'll take his side even if I don't agree with his decisions. I've received a great deal of commentary about how despite being fifteen, Lyanna ought to have known her duty and just been okay with that due to the world she grew up in. I see her, for the purposes of this story, as mix between Sansa and Arya, a little wild but certainly sheltered; Arya wasn't out here loving love and knights and handsome princes, but it took hard lessons before even her rose-colored glasses came off. Despite being fifteen and knowing her duty, Lyanna Stark was young even by Westerosi standards, sheltered, and in love. It doesn't make her actions acceptable, but it's why I personally find Rhaegar more responsible and why Ned takes his sister's side despite her actions. Also, I'm not even going to argue about whether or not it started a war; since this is based of the tv show, I'm just going to go right ahead and let Petyr Baelish and Lysa Arryn take that mantle.
> 
> Second, Ashara's loyalty is certainly to Elia, they're friends, they're countrymen, House Dayne is a Martell bannerman but...she's also a mother whose lost her child and whose had close relationships with people in the Stark family, bastard or not if her daughter had lived, it would have been a Stark. She has a two-fold motivation for seeing Lyanna's son be secreted out of Westeros, it's in part to spare Elia more disgrace as well as protect her children, but it's also for Lyanna and her son to have a life they wouldn't be able to live in Westeros. Aside from Cersei Lannister, who I understand albeit certainly don't like, I'm going to do my best to do justice to every lady in GoT. That doesn't mean they'll all think positively of each other, but I think oftentimes the women have circumstances much worse than the men and understand the nuances of their world much better. It plays an important part in how they treat each other and interact.
> 
> Now, Arthur, this seemingly inescapable belief that he's this perfect, gallant, chivalrous knight is wild so I'll just address the loudest and most enflamed comments I've ever received about him. He had no intentions to leave with Lyanna until this chapter after considering his sister's words; his goal was to ensure her and Jon to safety. What I see in him at this point in this story is a lot of what Jaime expressed to Brienne, there's so many vows and loyalties that it's impossible to stay true to them all. At this point, he's been complicit in Aerys raping his wife, Aerys burning people alive, Rhaegar taking and manipulating Lyanna, Rhaegar setting Elia aside, Rhaegar intentionally impregnating a girl for a prophetic child, the start of a war because of Rhaegar and Aerys both. Historically, this happens a lot with tyrants whose guards have been conditioned to be loyal so they never intervene. He's not more loyal to Lyanna than Elia or Ashara, but he feels like this he can do something about this and has just come off of being her main source of companionship for the duration of her pregnancy after helping put her in this position in the first place, it's an effort to ease his guilt and take action in a manner that if done in some ways would actually have no outward marring of his honor. He can save these two people of everyone and it's a chance he wants to take. That guilt and that desperation to ease his conscience is why he behaves the way he does with Ashara and says what he says knowing she's lost a child. Acting like Arthur Dayne is a pillar of righteousness after everything he was complicit in, both in the books and the show, is ridiculous. He's a warrior, and what he says to Ashara is 100% manipulation, it's a mercenary move to force empathy and encourage her assistance. For everyone whose screamed at me about this betrayal to Elia, he's already placed loyalty to Rhaegar over loyalty to Elia long before this point; he's spent months with Lyanna and is certain she isn't a threat to Elia or her children aside from technically being the crown princess and later queen, which is almost solely Rhaegar's doing. Also comparing two people isn't bashing Elia. By saying Lyanna is everything Elia wasn't, it isn't meant to denigrate Elia. It's a comparison. And from what I've read and seen, they are, in fact, very different people. It doesn't make Lyanna better than Elia, that's not what I'm saying, it's an attempt by Arthur to understand the circumstances that led to this situation. By all accounts, most people found Lyanna Stark a lively person who was fun to be around, which is not a slight on Elia's character, and it wasn't meant to be. Is Arthur being selfish? Definitely this is an attempt to clear his conscience, but he's a man and a warrior and is trying make up for past mistakes and dishonored vows.


	4. Davos

Davos Seaworth wonders about the couple onboard his ship. They don’t lack for affection or fondness, doting on their boy with soft smiles and softer words, heads bent together and words whispered between them. The man’s eyes sparkle whenever the woman laughs, and she watches him with cautious optimism and absolute trust, like she’s afraid he’ll disappear if she stops looking. He’s a number of years her elder, but that too isn’t so surprising, though how young she truly is makes Davos wonder about the nature of their sudden trip to Braavos on the decks of a smuggler’s ship. Perhaps the lady’s father isn’t so taken with the man, so taken with the way he ruined his daughter so young, and she is painfully young or perhaps he thinks so having been raised amongst smallfolk and growing so old. But he’s never seen a man so taken with his son as this fellow.

While his young wife bustles around the ship cooking, cleaning, and mending sails like she’s been born to it, he walks with the babe in arms talking softly to the quietest newborn Davos has ever come across, back and forth along the deck, pointing out clouds and waves and sometimes sealife when it deigns to show itself. Sometimes the boy claps or laughs or reaches out its fat arms to try and grasp things, but most often those tiny hands fist in his father’s curls and tug until the man winces, then laughs, reaching up to guide his hands away with a chiding remark. He watches his wife learn to hoist sails and scurry up the mast to look out over the Narrow Sea with a spyglass and a smile, short hair billowing in the wind, shaking his head and saying nothing.

It’s an odd thing to see a man so taken with his wife, so accepting of her preference for breeches and active hands. The calmest Davos has seen her is when she sits on the steps overlooking the sea with the babe in her lap learning bastardized Valyrian from a former Volantene slave while the babe babbles nonsense and claps his hands. He’ll not complain, though, not when they’re polite, courteous, even helpful doing their fair share of cleaning and labor. He suspects they’re highborn, the man calling himself Daeron Sand having to learn how to make repairs on deck but not how to wield a sword.

He’s a natural at wielding a sword.

The man spars every day on deck, in the mornings with his wife, correcting her form and footwork in exacting, unforgiving efficiency and knocking the sword out of her hand in less than five moves more often than not, but beneath that hard exterior is a gentleness and appreciation for her dedication, her bright laughter before she retrieves the blunted sword while the babe sits in an empty crate surrounded by blankets and watches them while chewing on a hand-carved wolf-shaped wooden teether. In the evenings he teaches Davos’s men, his sons, sometimes the young deckhands brought aboard to swab the deck. He’s not a patient teacher, too much a natural for that and impatient when his brusque commands are intelligible to most of the men, but his wife sits nearby with the babe in her lap carving toys from chunks of wood or laughing at the baby’s faces when he gnaws on her orange slices shouting translated instructions while her husband sighs like she’s harassing him.

Everything about the pair is suspicious.

They’d found him at the docks in Wyl offloading contraband cargo with a Dornish horse worth more than everything they carried on their person and a baby blanket embroidered with silk. The man himself with hard planes of muscle and looming height looked like a warrior, and Davos would have thought him a sellsword if not for the regal way he held himself and the proper manner of speaking, taught only by maesters to highborn lords of long-established houses. He’d tripped over his own name— _Daeron…Sand…and my wife…_ \--he’d gaped at her, and she’d rolled her eyes, passed the babe into her husband’s arms, and offered a soft, uncalloused hand like a lowborn laborer.

_Arya Snow_.

A couple of bastards, that’s what his men had laughed and called them until their request to take them along on their run to Braavos was accompanied by a stack of gold dragons that left Davos speechless.

Daeron Sand.

Arya Snow.

Their babe.

For that much money and so little trouble, Davos would take them anywhere they wanted to go.

The girl, Davos knows, hasn’t seen much of the world. As they’d sailed through the Stepstones, she leaned against the rail with her babe on her hip and watching the islands sail past with wide-eyed wonder, pointing things out to the babe and her husband both. It was reassuring to watch her husband smile indulgently and offer little nuggets of information about the Stepstones, the Disputed Lands, even Lys further south while she beamed and peppered him with questions that had to be answered by Davos’s well-traveled crew rather than her husband, shaking his head and returning to his task while she balked in amazement.

A brief stop in Tyrosh to offload some cargo and restock for the journey north saw little Arya Snow cutting off her hair with a slash of her knife and pleading with her husband to be allowed to leave, to see the city. He’d caved into her pleas only after Davos promised to watch the child, and she’d squealed in delight, taking her husband by the hand and dragging him across the docks of Tyrosh with a full smile and bright eyes while Davos stood on deck and directed the provisions with a solemn, silent babe little more than a couple months old sat upon his hip.

The crew enchanted her with stories of Myr, of Pentos, of Volantis and Lorath while she mended sails and clothes, laughing and cursing and sometimes even crying at the tales of adventure they spun of their own true experiences. She was as wide-eyed with wonder as the babe whose interest fell largely on lengths of rope he stuck in his mouth, bits of moldy food he squished between his fingers, and coins his father tended to throw at the heads of lackadaisical crewmates after the first time the boy almost choked on a Lorathi coin left on the ground after a rowdy game and long night of gambling.

They picked up a half-Dothrak woman at their brief stop in Pentos looking to become one of the notable courtesans of Braavos. The boy again in Davos’s company while young Arya dragged Daeron through the city—albeit with far more reluctance this time—blinked his big gray eyes at the Dothraki girl, and she’d swept him from Davos’s arms to coo over him. Never one to fuss, the boy took to her just as quick making noise back at her and gripping her braids with wonder in his eyes, hands roving over the textured plaits while she laughed delightedly.

“Your babe?” She’d asked Davos.

“Mine,” answered Arya Snow, watching from beside her husband with tense suspicion that lasted mere moments before she asked, “Are you Dothraki?”

Her husband glanced between his wife, his son, and the girl with a long sigh before relaxing his protective, warning glare.

“What’s Vaes Dothrak like? And the Dothraki Sea? And traveling with a khalasar? Do you speak Dothraki? Can you teach me?”

“My lady!” Her husband exclaims, smirking when his wife turns to him with a snarl on her lips. “Slow down. Perhaps she has no interest in answering your million questions, hm?”

“I just want to know—”

“And I want to see the pyramids of Meeren, but wants are just wishes in the wind.”

Before the lady could argue, the Dothraki girl chuckled and shook her head, eyes sparkling with mirth as she looked between them, baby still bouncing in her arms.

“I not mind. I tell you, yes?”

“Yes,” breathed out the lady with excitement, plopping down on the deck and shooting her husband a sour look. “Don’t you have provision stocking to do, Ser?”

Her husband offered her a half-smile, “Behave.” He ducked the orange she threw at the back of his head, a crew member from Yi Ti catching the orange with a wolfish smile and playful wink towards the lady until her husband throws an arm around his neck and drags him away.

Davos ought to have predicted the lady would get on so well with Asavvi, profession be damned. Through he suspects she’s every much the highborn lady her husband teasingly addresses her as, she has a way with people, an easy acceptance and effortless charm she extends to every man, woman, and child regardless of background, status, or walk of life. She treats slaves with the same respect as merchants, whores as highborn ladies, kids as adults borne of a respect he suspects she feels has not been appropriately extended to her. Her husband follows her lead with more hesitancy but no less determination to treat people right. It simply doesn’t come as naturally to him as to her.

The lady takes to Dothraki as easily as to bastardized Valyrian and teaches Asavvi the Old Tongue of the First Men of the North. They talk horses and slavery and politics of the khalasar, dosh khaleen, and khals over the tasks Davos no longer has to assign. Asavvi helps her improve her whittling, and the lady extends scrolls and books to teach Asavvi reading and writing and basic economics when she learns her education places her in a vulnerable position to be taken advantage of as a courtesan. At her assistance, the husband teaches Asavvi how to wield a knife with far more patience than he displays for swordsmanship and soon enough the cooks and deckhands are joining in flinging knifes across the decks in the evenings while the lady laughs and keeps her inquisitive son away from the chaos.

They make a last stop at Gulltown to offload some of the contraband they picked up in Tyrosh and exchange it for smuggled goods from the Vale including a number of birds of prey that the lady examines with wide eyes while keeping her son’s fingers away from their sharp beaks and sharper talons while her husband explains the laws around capturing, training, and selling hunting birds in the Vale with the expertise of an educated lordling. He spends the day on the beaches with the boy, breeches rolled to his knees while he kept half an eye on his son and went crabbing. He returns with a grinning, muddy son and three fat crabs that he passes to the cook and his wife before dumping cold water over the boy’s head and laughing when the boy yelps and fists his hands, eyebrows furrowed together with a mulish, displeased look.

“Have you any news?” He asks Davos later that night, half an eye on his wife learning dance with a dark-skinned man from the Basilisk Isles off the coast of Sothoryos while Asavvi holds the babe in her lap and sings a bawdy Westerosi song along with the rest of the crew. This time the affection in his eyes is tempered by grief, by caution, by fear.

Davos wonders not for the first time what sort of trouble led these two good people to flee Westeros in company of their babe for foreign shores.

“The queen mother has birthed a healthy babe, a girl she calls Daenerys. Queen Elia has grown weak and very ill. It’s thought she’s not long for this world. The Lady Lyanna Stark has perished along with Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Gerold Hightower, and Ser Arthur Dayne. Barristan Selmy has been raised to the lord commander of the Kingsguard. Renly Baratheon is to be held as hostage in King’s Landing, Stannis the Lord of Storm’s End, and in agreement of marrying Cersei Lannister he’ll not be stripped of the position as Lord Paramount as the Tullys and the Arryns have since they’re accused of conspiring to place Robert Baratheon on the throne. Daenerys has been betrothed to Prince Aegon, and apparently the king has given his son a dragon egg in the hopes it will hatch.”

“Crazy Targaryens,” scoffs Davos’s first mate, “dragons and incest.”

“Lots of noble lords marry kin.”

“When a man’s father and mother are brother and sister, a nephew should not marry an aunt. Marrying cousins is one matter, but Targaryens marry within their family more than not, is it a wonder they’re all so mad?”

Daeron Sand seems to have nothing to say to that.

“At least this king hasn’t betrothed his daughter and son. Thought that’s where we was headin’ what with the names and such.” The man drinks his ale while Davos and Daeron listen in silent contemplation. “Think he’ll blow the Red Keep like his grandfather? That’d be a sight to see.”

Davos watches Daeron wince and return his gaze to his wife with longing he’s unaccustomed to seeing a married couple that already has a child and no shortage of affection between them. She laughs and sweeps her squealing son into her arms, spinning him while Asavvi slips into the arms of the man from Sothoryos with a playful smile on her lips. A sad smile spreads across his lips as his eyes follow her, drinking in her happiness like it’s rare and ought to be cherished.

“The Lannisters are putting off the marriage to Stannis, pressing for Lady Cersei to be the king’s wife should Queen Elia die, but the lords think it’s an insult to make the twin sister of the Kingslayer a queen.”

“The queen is not yet dead,” mumbles Daeron angrily.

“The king needs heirs and alliances,” argues Davos with a flippant shrug. “Try not to take it so personal.”

Daeron stiffens but nods with a shuttered look on his face before he slips away, retreating to the side of his wife and child while Davos watches with mounting suspicion. Daeron trades a cup of ale for the boy with a cocky smile that softens when the lady laughs and tucks a silver-blond curl behind his ear.

A northern lady with a newborn babe that speaks the Old Tongue and possesses a highborn’s education in company of skilled swordsman with Dornish coloring and Valyrian hair and eyes that understands nuanced politics and doesn’t shy from hardwork.

Davos’s suspicion is only swayed by the solemn-faced babe.

They say Lady Lyanna was kidnapped by Prince Rhaegar and raped. They say Lady Lyanna ran away from her betrothal, that Prince Rhaegar was protecting her from his father. They say Lady Lyanna was the king’s whore, that she died, that Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, died too.

The truth, Davos suspects, is not something he’s ready to know so he doesn’t ask, only carries his suspicions alongside his gratefulness for their hardwork, his appreciation for their company, his affection for their natures.

His sleep is troubled by his revelations, but his heart settles the next morning when he breaks his fast and finds Arya Snow—Lady Lyanna Stark—sitting on the deck with Asavvi, the deckhands, and even a number of older crew gathered around an open book while she teaches them their letters. He gravitates closer, and she meets his eyes with a slight smile that invites him to sit and attend . So he sits and mouthes along with the words that a young boy from Maidenpool reads slow and uncertain while the lady encourages him with a gentle smile and soft words of reassurances until she instructs a man from Oxcross to pick up where he left off.

When her husband ambles onto the deck it’s with the babe in arm and hair askew. She laughs and combs her fingers through his tangled curls while correcting Asavvi’s pronunciation and presses a kiss to the top of his head while smiling down at her babe.

With favorable winds, they reach Braavos less than a month later.

The lady stands at the bow of the ship, babe in arms, and balks at the Titan of Braavos heralding their entrance to the islands and canals making up the great free city of Braavos. She gasps at the domed buildings and bridges and towers, Asavvi at her side while her husband watches her with quiet amusement, lowering sails and helping secure their less savory cargo for the inspection. Davos pays off the harbormaster while Daeron watches with fascination, not even looking as he moves away the cyvasse pieces littering the makeshift table before the babe can put them into his mouth, and then they’re onto Ragman’s Harbor to dock and offload cargo.

Shore leave is an unusually boisterous affair, most of it spent onboard saying their goodbyes to Asavvi, Daeron, and Arya, passing around their favorite babe like a party favor. Nabbo, a crewmate of Braavosi heritage, helps them find a small house at the fringes of the city with a garden and courtyard and access to the canal. How they manage to purchase a house, Davos knows better than to ask, and Nabbo offers no explanations, but Asavvi comes with them until she finds work in a brothel, and they say their goodbyes after almost three months, tearful and saddened.

“Don’t be a stranger, Davos,” says the lady, hugging him tightly while her husband nods at him. “You know where to find us.”

“Aye, I do at that.”

“Keep up with the reading lessons,” she lectures. “Your first mate knows enough to be a proficient teacher.”

“Aye little lady. And you be safe,” she nods with teary eyes, “and let your lord husband look after you at least a little. He seems the decent sort. And he loves you something fierce.” This looks like it surprises her. The look she slants her husband, deep in conversation with Davos’s crew while they pass around the babe, is considering, thoughtful, even hopeful. “I’ll be seeing ya.”

“I’ll miss you,” she says, slipping into her husband’s embrace as she waves goodbye, “safe travels.”

“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” says a woman with pale skin, dark red hair and an even darker red dress. She stares not at the lady or her husband, but the babe in his arms with a certainty that leaves Davos shivering and praying to gods old and new that Lady Lyanna and Ser Arthur will be safe and protected so far from home, from Westerosi threats and, his eyes linger on the Red Woman, all others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an AU so a lot of the characters, their relationships, and how they meet is going to shifted around here. A lot of people Arya meets in Braavos, Jon's going to know because I love a lot of those relationships and want them to cross paths, which requires some maneuverings on my part. Davos is going to be important to Jon, the North, maintaining contact with the people in Essos later. The bit about Arthur's style of teaching was inspired by a Lyanna/Arthur fanfiction called Exile by HeavyShoegaze that you should check out if you haven't yet (https://archiveofourown.org/works/15019478) because it wasn't something I thought about but makes sense. I have a lot of problems teaching my little brother math because I'm naturally good at it and he's not; it makes me frustrated when he doesn't understand just from an explanation like I do. It's something I would expect from people who are naturally good at something to have difficulty empathetically teaching people who aren't.
> 
> I guess this is where I now say Elia isn't going to die. She actually plays a major role in this story and is going be a very important and powerful player for both the Seven Kingdoms and the Long Night, because I've always just wondered about Rhaegar's tenacity for the Iron Throne. I've heard from people who've read the books he was moody and melancholy and caught up in dreams so I have to wonder how strong of a ruler he would have been especially after everything he was willing to do for his prophecy. Her illness is important to how the Lannisters move, Pycelle, and Littlefinger. Shireen is not going to be in this because I wanted Cersei's kids to be Baratheon in name and the timing of when Stannis marries Selyse according to most sources places it after the rebellion by a few years. I love Shireen but it just made sense to force those two people together.
> 
> I am not going to apologize for making Lyanna likable, though I'm sure people will complain about it. People can tell me as much as they want to that by GoT standards she's basically and adult, and I am considering that with the knowledge we have now that we address age of consent and consequences of decisions made during that age because the brains of teenagers are not mature enough to make informed decisions. It's scientifically proven that teenagers have a difficult concept of action and consequences, that they're most often incapable of making and understanding informed decisions based on their actions, but the reason Davos makes note of her age is because he's so much older than her. I'm in my mid-twenties and older people tell me all the time that I'm SO young. I'm not, they're just so much older than me that I seem a lot younger. That being said, she had her flaws in canon, she'll have her flaws here, she ran off with a married man, that doesn't actually make her a horrible human being. It makes her decisions wrong and maybe even a bad person in some respects but not in all of them. I don't believe in black and whites of human nature, people can do good things and be bad people, people can do bad things and be good people. It's not all-or-nothing in life. It won't be here either.
> 
> As for Howland, for the sake of the story I'm making him a greenseer just one considerably weaker than Jojen. Next chapter is going to be from Elia's perspective so let's all strap ourselves in and sharpen our pitchforks now.


	5. Elia

The story goes like this: at five and ten Lady Lyanna Stark, having run away from her betrothal with Robert Baratheon and being hunted by King Aerys, becomes pregnant with Prince Rhaegar’s child. Frail, young, heartbroken from the death of her family and unused to the heat and dry air of Dorne, the pregnancy was difficult and delivery worse still, especially without the assistance of a maester (though this point seems more of a recrimination towards Rhaegar than a legitimate grievance), the babe, a girl, Rhaegar’s Visenya, died in birth while her mother languished from blood loss and heartache. By the time her dear brother, Eddard, reached her, she was so heartsick she threw herself from the tower without the knowledge her kin fought to reach her against the Kingsguard left to protect her at the base. By the time Lord Eddard Stark and his bannerman reach her, she’s already as dead as her babe, as the Kingsguard left to protect her. Lord Eddard returned Dawn and Ser Arthur’s bones to Starfall before venturing north to leave Ser Oswell’s and Ser Gerold’s with their king. He refuses to leave the baby’s bones nor his sister’s no matter how sternly Rhaegar demands.

_She is a Stark of Winterfell. She is nothing to you, your Grace, nor is her babe. They belong to my house, in the crypts of the Kings of Winter. She is my blood, my kin, my family not yours, is that not so, your Grace?_

It’s a challenge Elia doesn't quite understand or, rather, doesn't yet want to.

Rhaegar doesn’t fight him, can’t fight him with the lords of Westeros and Elia's family in such close proximity, coiled like snakes and ready to strike should he dare heap anymore disgrace upon her.

It’s a beautiful story that the bards will sing of like they do Jenny of Oldstones, forever haunting Elia and her children, forever reminding the realm of her shame, her husband’s preference for the northern wildling little more than a girl. Every part of her wants to hate the girl as her brothers do, but she can’t manage it, not when she looks at her daughter and pictures her in Lyanna Stark’s place trapped in betrothal to a lustful, faithless man (not, she’s come to realize, unlike Rhaegar) to appease her father, brother, and house, seduced by a handsome prince that sings away her fears and promises her freedom only to bed her, leave her with child, and abandon her in a tower leagues away from her home and family all over a prophecy Elia doubts Rhaegar even understands. Lady Lyanna is no victim, but she's pitiable nonetheless.

The story Rhaegar tells the nobility is this: Lady Lyanna Stark was the Knight of the Laughing Tree (this much is true) in defense of her father’s bannerman, her secret discovered by King Aerys sent Rhaegar riding north to intercept her before his father could do something unthinkable (as he did regardless). To protect her, he and his Kingsguard took her south to Dorne leaving a note in Riverrun with her goodsister, Lysa Tully, lost to the chaos of the times (or so says Lady Lysa, wife of the now-disgraced Jon Arryn, with crocodile tears and dramatics that Elia finds as suspicious as Petyr Baelish’s smirk) to protect her from his father and prevent war. The loss of the letter and Robert Baratheon’s possessiveness over his betrothed led to misinformation she’d been taken and raped, sending Brandon to King’s Landing to demand Rhaegar’s life and Rickard’s retrieval ending in treason, wildfire, and death. When news reached Lady Lyanna at the end of the war, she was so heartbroken and regretful, she threw herself from the tower unaware that her brother had come to retrieve her and the Kingsguard convinced he came at the behest of Robert Baratheon to do her harm, fought until the death to protect her upon orders of their prince in a tragedy that the bards will sing about with as much fervor.

This story Elia hates more, stripped as it is of much of Lyanna’s responsibility in the war and any of Rhaegar’s (that it paints her self-centered, prophecy-obsessed, fool of a husband as some sort of heroic figure is grating). As though he didn’t spend a year pursuing her. As though he didn’t bed her. As though this prophesized stillborn babe is nothing at all and his heartbreak is for the realm, for the north, for the tragic loss of Lady Lyanna and not for the third head of his dragon he’s certain may be his darling baby sister Daenerys, already betrothed to Aegon against Elia’s vocal wishes to postpone child betrothals until adolescence at the very least.

The second story is no more believable than the first, though she’ll not tell Rhaegar this.

Lord Eddard Stark is angry, almost enraged, dismissive and challenging of Rhaegar’s authority rather than the deferential, honorable, timid man he’s always been known to be. He’s not broken at the death of his sister and her babe, he’s incensed with Rhaegar, borderline belligerent and as arrogant in his steadfast defense of the north, its position, and the crown’s right to meddle within his lands and siphon needed taxes out of its coffers as Elia's own brothers often are. Like Rhaegar owes this to the north by right of blood and marriage. Lord Stark's man, Howland Reed, the man Lady Lyanna became a knight to defend, watches Rhaegar with bright-eyed intensity and scorn, like he sees something he dislikes.

Lady Ashara, Elia’s dearest friend, having lost her own daughter and dancing dangerously on the edge of the abyss, whose life and sanity Elia once feared for, seems suddenly changed. Her favorite brother gone, baby dead, and reputation ruined, yet Lady Ashara appears to have found purpose, throwing herself into becoming the most learned woman in Dorne and traveling north to see the Wall according to her latest letter. It’s stranger than the Daynes' disinterest in the death of their Sword of the Morning, their dismissal of Rhaegar’s genuine condolences for the loss of his closest friend and their most accomplished son.

The idea of Lady Lyanna throwing herself from the Tower of Joy, whether over her family’s death or her daughter’s, is preposterous, even to Elia who knows her by reputation alone. As preposterous as Ser Arthur Dayne being defeated in single combat by Eddard Stark despite Howland Reed’s reluctant admittance to stabbing him in the back when he’d disarmed Eddard in single combat. The first time Elia saw the girl Rhaegar destroyed Westeros for, she’d been fighting in the woods of Harrenhall with her eldest brother and losing, but for every hit, every scratch, every defeat, she’d clenched her jaw, picked up her sword, and faced him again. She’s no meek little girl. She’s a direwolf, a living embodiment of her house as Elia is hers, as women so often are.

Lady Lyanna Stark isn’t the sort to give up.

When night falls, Elia visits Rhaegar in his chambers for the first time since Harrenhall, bursting through the doors heedless of the Kingsguard and glares at him until the doors are closed behind her.

“What have you done Rhaegar?”

“The song of fire and ice,” he sighs, eyes sad but not as sad as those of a man whose truly lost his beloved and their daughter ought to be. “It came so close to disaster, Elia. I thought she was the one, the woman who’d give a Visenya to our Aegon and Rhaenys, to give us the third head of the dragon, to stand beside our children and bring forth the dawn. She was perfect. It had to be her, and yet, Daenerys…”

He sighs again, unduly stressed by his own decisions, and her heart pounds furiously from the force of her anger. She once believed Rhaegar the best of men, loyal and honorable and noble, though she’d never believed he loved her as a man ought towards his lady wife. She thought he loved Lyanna once or was infatuated at the very least. He had never been a passionate man, never loved anything or anyone more than his harp and his prophecy, even upon Aegon’s birth his only words of comfort had been calling him the promised prince before saying he needed a Visenya (the dragon has three heads). He’d pursued the she-wolf so doggedly, spoke of her to Ser Arthur so incessantly, rode out to save her from Aerys without a moment’s hesitation, and hidden her away in Elia’s Dorne under three of the greatest Kingsguard in history while Aerys held Elia and her children hostage in King’s Landing, Elia couldn't be more certain. She had accepted his love for Lady Lyanna (with bitterness and anger and certainty that she could endure a private mistress provided he heaped no more more public humiliation upon her) after Harrenhall, after learning she was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, after reading the letters exchanged between them where Rhaegar spoke of love and Lyanna spoke of freedom. Despite her infringement upon Elia’s marriage, she couldn’t help but like the girl's daring even as she raged against the thoughtless selfishness of her actions.

“That is not what I asked, Rhaegar. What did you do? Why does Eddard Stark look like he wants to kill you? Why do you give into his demands like he’s family?”

“I married her,” confesses Rhaegar with not even a flicker of shame or regret or apology. Elia gapes, anger mounting at the admission. “I needed a Targaryen not a Blackfyre. A trueborn Visenya to stand beside the prince that was promised, to help him wake dragons from stone.”

“I am your wife, Rhaegar, you can’t have married her.”

Rhaegar looks at her and looks and sighs.

Ice creeps through her veins as realization settles in.

Rhaegar was crown prince of Seven Kingdoms. His mother suffered numerous miscarriages, war was on the horizon, and Elia will never bear another child. Royal children have dangerously short lifespans, and there was no guarantee Aegon would live to adulthood despite Rhaegar’s staunch belief in this prophecy. It would be no hard thing to set Elia aside and annul the marriage to wed a young, highborn, fertile girl in her place.

“Are you mad, Rhaegar? What of Dorne? Of our marriage? Of our children?”

“I did this for our children,” argues Rhaegar, “to give Aegon a sister to stand beside him and bring forth the dawn. The dragon must have three heads.”

“You set me aside for your prophecy!” Elia hisses, outraged and indignant, this man she once respected unrecognizable in this face of this betrayal. Lyanna is not the ambitious sort, nor is her brother, nor is her kingdom, but if they had been, if she’d lived, if the child had been a boy? Elia shudders at the thought, at the risk this revelation poses to the peace of the Seven Kingdoms should Dorne discover this insult, if gods forbid Tywin Lannister learns the king is technically widowed. “Have you no shame, Rhaegar? Have you no heart? You’ll tear the realms apart for prophecy you don’t even understand. Fire and ice. Salt and smoke. Our son was not born amid salt and smoke, certainly not from fire and ice. Nor was Rhaenys. Nor Daenerys. You know nothing, Rhaegar Targaryen. You’ll burn down the realm for guesswork and conjecture! And now you’re beholden to the north.”

“Not anymore than Dorne,” he returns coolly.

Elia reels back at the accusation, more so when she can’t deny his accusation.

Leverage over the Iron Throne is the exact reason her mother had brokered this marriage to begin with despite Elia’s preference for Baelor Hightower and weakened state that threatened her health to bear children at all let alone the amount needed to satisfy the line of succession and beneath the immeasurable hatred and pressure of King Aerys. Her brothers make no attempts not to take advantage of her position, especially now that Rhaegar has humiliated her time and again in the eyes of Westeros. How much worse would it be if the annulment and his remarriage became public knowledge?

Never mind her brothers, she could already picture Cersei Lannister’s smug grins and seductive glances towards Rhaegar, her father’s insistence that his loyalty deserves reward and he can hardly return to the wife he callously set aside due to her infertility.

Insufferable, the lot of them, the Lannisters, she’d rather have Lady Lyanna and her daughter.

“Did you love her at all?” Elia demands, simmering in her rage. The answer shouldn’t matter to Elia, but it does. “Or was she just another pawn in the face of your prophecy?” _Like Elia. Like Elia's children. Like Dorne and all the Seven Kingdoms._

This provokes the first genuine response Elia has seen since he arrived victorious from the Trident and took control of King’s Landing before his father’s body even grew cold.

“Don’t speak to me of Lyanna,” he warns, eyes flashing with rage and grief that’s almost believable. Elia thinks, perhaps, he may believe himself in love with Lady Lyanna, but his actions prove otherwise. He pursued her without thought, shamed her as much as Elia, brought the realm to ruin and if she’d lived Elia wonders what he would have done with her. She’s no courtly lady, no perfect queen, no demure woman to sit at his side and tend his children. Dorne would have been insulted. The north would have been furious. The westerlands would push not to have the marriage recognized and foist Cersei Lannister upon him. He’s considered nothing of her safety, her future, her reputation, singleminded in pursuit of his prophecy as much with her as everybody in his life. “I know what you think of her. ‘The king’s whore.’ You think I don’t hear the poisonous whispers your brothers spread just because I make no mention of them?”

“You know nothing,” hisses Elia defensively.

“I know Doran. I know Oberyn. I know you, however much you wish otherwise.” Rhaegar challenges, ire cooling beneath a veneer of superiority she hardly recognizes on her husband’s face. “I am not to be trifled with. I am king, yours, your brothers, Dorne’s. There is work to be done, a realm to heal and unite, a kingdom and children to prepare for the fight for dawn. The Long Night is coming, and I’ll not allow myself to be beholden to the Starks or the Martells. Lady Lyanna is gone, our daughter dead, but I’ll not let her sacrifice be in vain.”

Elia stares at the man she was once married to, once enamored with, once faithful to.

_Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin._

She’d once been so certain of where Rhaegar’s had landed but standing before him now she realizes madness is not always the straightforward viciousness and paranoia of Aerys or the emotional outbursts of young Viserys.

“I truly pity Lady Lyanna if this is what your love looks like,” drawls Elia, stiff and distant. Anger is useless here before her immovable husband. He is so confident in this truth, this belief, that fact has no place here nor regret nor apology for the lives he’s destroyed, the position he’s put Elia in, or the potential dangers this places upon their children. Everything she’d endured—his father’s scorn, public disgrace, bearing his children, supporting his ridiculous dreams—and he’d abandoned her and their children in the viper's pit of King's Landing on the eve of war with his monstrous father, with no protection, without consideration to the consequences should he fall, with their marriage annulled for a girl he didn’t even love to birth a stillborn daughter to complete an obsolete ancient prophecy. She wants to wring his neck. She wants her mother. She wants to go home. “I am no longer your wife, and I’ll not remain here a moment longer than I must. I will return to Sunspear—”

“You will not,” corrects Rhaegar. “For your children and for Dorne, you’ll remain here to help prepare the kingdom and our children for the coming war.”

Elia trembles in impotent rage, hands balled into fists at her side. She thinks of Lady Ashara, reputation in shambles and bastard daughter dead, sailing from Starfall to Barrowtown, across the hostile lands of the North to the majesty of the Wall, unencumbered and free. She thinks of her mother who’d once ruled Sunspear in her own right, a Dornish princess who’d controlled her world. She thinks of Lady Lyanna somewhere in Westeros, hidden by her brothers, alive and defiant of Rhaegar’s whims and wishes and wants. She thinks of Rhaegar, knowing absolutely nothing of it, adrift and trying to fit together the pieces of his shattered certainty. It's not enough, but she'll take this victory for now. She clenches her jaw and curtsies.

“As you wish, your Grace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've heard some really interesting comments about POC characters and reader relating to Elia and the image it projects that Rhaegar left her for a white girl essentially, living Elia at risk to experience the horrible ending she had. I've honestly never even considered that angle, and it was fascinating to hear from people about it. I'm biracial, and a lot of the characters in the original stories I write are POC, but I have a really contemptuous relationships with the African-American side of my family and was raised by my white mother who taught me to see people for who they are not what race they come from. I'm not as sensitive to the issue as I think people who are either white or POC tend to be. I've never felt like it affected me, which has nothing to do with this story but I thought I'd share since all of you did and I was really interested by what people who commented on it had to say. I prefer in my original stories to write characters that are biracial because I relate to them and POC characters because I tend to write high fantasy and science fiction, and I think there's a dearth of diversity within those genres, even sci-fi, which tends to just use aliens or cyborgs to replace POC characters. My biggest problem with Games of Throne's representation of POC has been the Targaryens, actually. Geographically speaking, it makes no sense people of Old Valyrian blood are white, silver-haired, and purple-eyed with Sothoryos to the south, the Dothraki to the north, Rhoynar peoples to the west and the people of Slaver's Bay to the east. They ought to look like a cross between the Dornish and the Meerenese rather than purple-eyed Vikings (I'm big into rational biological evolution even in fantasy and fiction so, you know, it bothers me in that sense)
> 
> Anyway, I didn't mean to start this with such an anti-Rhaegar vibe but in context (and in canon) he's a bad husband, not a great person, and a terrible servant of the realm. In the show, Lysa and Petyr all but ensured this war would start, but there would still have been a war. He ran away with Robert's betrothed, without permission from the Warden of the North, and disrespected Elia publicly AGAIN. If he loved Lyanna, then he was short-sighted and selfish. If this was about prophecy, then I can't see this ever having gone well even if everything had gone according to this very wonky and narcissistic plan. That's what a lot of Elia's frustration is here. She's had time to process Lyanna, knows she's dead (allegedly) or the very least no longer in Westeros being a source of public humiliation, and dismissed her because Rhaegar's in front of her and he's the one with a plan, a prophecy, and all these responsibilities he's shunted aside for love (maybe) or prophecy (definitely).
> 
> I think, as a woman, we like to focus on the female because it hurts too much to put the blame on someone you love, built a life with, and have been betrayed by. But at the end of the day, what Lyanna did was wrong but she wasn't the one who made promises and had responsibilities to Elia, to Dorne, and to the realm. Right now in the story, Lyanna's out of sight and out of mind and therefore irrelevant as a focus of Elia's anger. It'll come up again between the two women, but I think Elia's an empathetic enough character to focus her deserved rage where it belongs, Lyanna and Rhaegar, and not parties only peripherally related, like Eddard Stark. They actually develop a pretty dynamic relationship in the later chapters I've been writing. Point being at this point in the story, after Harrenhall, the war, and being held hostage by Aerys with no protection while waiting for the worst to happen, Elia's had time to consider where she stands and her position and her anger. She has a pretty solid grasp of the situation (more solid than Rhaegar's anyway) and has focused her rage where she feels it belongs. Now that Rhaegar's leveraged her to remain in King's Landing and play up the charade of still being a married couple, the gloves are coming off.


	6. Ashara

**287AC Braavos**

The years had been kind to Lady Ashara; Benjen Stark had too. She looks to him, pulling sails with a man from Yi Ti, stripped down to his waist and showing off the corded muscles the last severals years of hard labor, frequent travel, and an unparalleled devotion his swordsmanship managed to build. No longer is he the pale-faced boy she’d met on her first trip to the North who’d escorted her from Barrowtown to the Wall where she’d marveled at the structure, languished at the conditions of the Night’s Watch, and dodged Maester Aemon’s pointed inquiries into the health of Rhaegar, his family, and his Lady Lyanna. He looked a perfect cross between the solemn Eddard and suave Brandon, smiling freely but not often, laughing quietly but frequently, and looking eastward towards Essos with as much longing and determination as Ashara.

Four years.

That’s how long it had taken until Eddard Stark and Howland Reed agreed them ready to travel across the Narrow Sea to Braavos.

Benjen spent much of that time in Starfall, learning how to fight like a knight under the direction of Ashara's father and elder brother while Ashara remained in Winterfell learning how to be a governess from Old Nan and the castle’s maester.

Catelyn Tully spent most of those years watching Ashara with suspicion and scorn, angered that a debased woman who’d birthed a bastard had been invited into the home of the Warden of the North to learn skills no highborn woman had any place knowing. She was uncertain of Ashara’s relationship with Ned, uncertain of who’d sired Ashara’s child, uncertain of why Ned invited her into their home, uncertain of why Robb and sweet, little Sansa adored her so much.

It didn’t bother Ashara any. She had her goals and little could distract her from achieving them. Not Elia’s subtle statements she could return to King’s Landing as a lady-in-waiting so she could oust Cersei Lannister officially. Not the birth of her first nephew, Edric, that her baby sister, Allyria, and her goodsister write about with such care and tenderness. Not her father’s insistence she forget this madness and come home, allow himself and her brother to care for Arthur. She wouldn’t be swayed, especially not now.

Ashara had seen more of the world than most women of her standing, but in four years, she’d seen so much more than she'd ever dreamed. She ridden from Barrowtown to Winterfell, stood atop the Wall, been to Torrhen’s Square, ridden through the Wolfswood and over the Lonely Hills to Last Hearth. She hunted frogs and alligator in Neck with the crannogmen men and spent a moon in the moving castle of Greywater Watch and seen the Fingers from the Three Sisters. Ser Rodrik Cassel taught her to wield a blade, Old Nan taught her how to wield her history, and Maester Luwin taught her how to wield knowledge. She’d learned more in the last four years than most girls learn in a lifetime and spent moons on Bear Island understanding the wildness of northern women with Maege Mormont and her incredible daughters in a place where a man is just a man and a woman worth more than the marriage bed.

When Benjen sent word he’d departed from Starfall with her father’s blessing, she’d rejoiced in the thought of how much more she’d see. Of taking a smuggler’s ship out of the Bite and across the Narrow Sea to Braavos. Of seeing her dear brother again for the first time in over four years.

Davos Seaworth had met them in White Harbor with a broad smile and no shortage of stories about her brother, Lyanna, and the boy he called Jon. Their journey across the Narrow Sea lingered in memory, and the crew had visited them many times throughout the years, seen Jon grow from a quiet, introverted baby to an introspective, solemn toddler. He called Arthur a hard worker and good man, Lyanna a joy and an excellent teacher, and Jon ‘the sweetest child I think I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet’ but ‘rather obsessed with those curls of his.’

The trip from White Harbor to Braavos took only near a month, and it passed quickly with Benjen helping the crew and Ashara reinforcing Lyanna’s surprising work to make the entire crew literate. By the time they arrived beneath the Titan, Ashara felt no time at all had passed.

She sits on the rail as they dock at Ragman’s Harbor, and her eyes track the movement along the port, overwhelmed by such a bustling population after so many years at sea.

Amongst the crowd, her eyes find a boy crouching on the dock, long dark curls falling around his face and eyes pinned to a small crab snapping its pinchers. He looks like a street waif, tunic and skin caked in dirt and mud, but he’s too well fed to be homeless and orphaned.

“Careful, please!” He shouts when an oyster cart ambling down the port almost crushes the crab beneath its wheel. He huffs and looks up at a man in a long gray robe, a single gray streak in muddy red hair. Everyone on the dock gives the man a wide berth, but the child seems not to notice, peering up at him. “Can you help me?”

“A boy doesn’t understand nature.”

“A boy is four,” the kid replies.

“A boy should return to his mother. A mother could grow worried.”

“A boy wants to save a crab.”

“Perhaps a crab is meant to return to the Many-Faced God.”

The boy sighs, and the man’s lips turn up into a smile at the corners. The boy rises to his feet and kicks the crab into the water, a gentle but stunning kick for such a small creature. Ashara raises her eyebrows, and the boy tilts his head at the man.

“This is why a boy does not visit a man at the House of Black and White.”

“This is or a boy's father is?”

The boy doesn’t answer.

“Does a boy’s mother know he is here?”

“A boy’s mother is buying oysters,” replies the boy, jutting his chin further down the docks, gulls circling overhead at the fish market. The man tilts his head, and the boy smiles. “A boy is receiving guests tonight.”

“Guests?”

“Guests,” agrees the boy, pointing a finger towards the man, “a man will come as a boy’s guest?”

“Careful with those,” warns Nabbo, the Braavosi crewmate, drawing Ashara's attention away from the scene. He jerks his head towards the gray-robed man and grimaces. “Faceless Men. Assassins. They’re revered in Braavos, but they’re dangerous, allegiance only to the Many-Faced God. The god of death.”

“Jon!”

Ashara turns at the name and finds that same boy standing wide-eyed and sheepish. The Lorathi man—the Faceless Man—is gone, and all that remains is a woman in a deep purple dress, bag thrown over her shoulder, and dark hair pinned atop her head with a gorgeous Yi Ti hairpin.

The years have been kind to Lyanna Stark too.

Gone is the slip of a girl whose pregnancy looked to break her fragile, willowy frame. The lines of her body have softened into curves, bony arms muscled and toned, skin still pale but glowing. Her hair is dark and silky, cheeks round and eyes bright. She crouches beside Jon and tries to wipe the dirt from his chubby cheeks, and he submits to his mother’s attention with solemn-faced stoicism Ashara can never imagine any of her brothers having, not even Arthur. Lyanna scolds her son gently, and he nods with an offer of soft apologies and a touch to her cheek that’s heartbreakingly sweet.

He’s precious, the little prince. Not unlike what she’s heard of Aegon, a boy Elia reports as gentle, introspective, and unusually intelligent; she also calls him contrary, stubborn, and angry either because of his father’s high expectations or his lack of genuine interest in the boy as he is rather than as the promised prince Rhaegar hopes him to be.

Elia’s likely correct on both accounts.

“My lady!” Davos calls as the gangplank is lowered, and he makes his way towards her and her son. Jon darts forward to hug his legs while Lyanna beams and kisses his stubbled cheek.

“Not you too, Davos.”

“Jon, you look much dirtier then the last time I saw you,” teases Davos while Prince Jon Targaryen wrinkles his nose and shakes his head with a smile that reminds Ashara painfully of Rhaenys.

“I doubt that,” admonishes Lyanna with a sideways glance to her son. “Between Art and these cats Syrio has Jon chasing around the canals, I don’t know when I’ll ever see my son clean again.”

“Lya!”

“Benjen!”

They fly into each other’s arms, hugging on tightly, while Jon holds Davos’s hand and watches them with a frown of confusion.

Though Ashara misses her own brother desperately, she can’t begrudge them this moment. It’s been far longer since Benjen has seen Lyanna than Ashara has seen Arthur. Benjen hugs his sister desperately, like she might fade away into nothing should he release her. They mutter to each other, heads pressed together and watery smiles on their faces while Ashara turns her attention to her charge.

Jon Targaryen still looks every inch a northerner, wild and untamable, but for the air contentment and serenity that settles around him. His has kind, knowing eyes and a sweet, gentle smile that reminds her painfully of Rhaegar and Rhaenys and Aegon. His face is entirely Rhaegar’s with the delicate, beautiful features common to those of Old Valyrian blood, but with time and her brother’s influence, Ashara suspects he’ll look more like Arthur than Rhaegar in ten years times, more like a warrior and less like a musician.

Everything she knows of Jon comes from Arthur. Years have dulled Ashara’s anger towards Lyanna Stark, but they’ve never been friends of the sort to write to each other, not after Brandon, the Rebellion, and Jon. Benjen’s letter have been sparse and informative if wry in their humor and filled with jokes and commentary only they would understand. But Arthur raves about the boy as if he’s Arthur’s own blood. Ashara knows Jon's quiet demeanor from infancy seems to be permanent, he smiles rarely but is thoughtful and attentive and obedient. She knows he’s curious and loves to touch things like the beaks of falcons and the pinchers of crabs and the steeds of Dothraki, giggling and shrieking when touch receives an adverse reaction. She knows Lyanna’s been teaching him to ride like the centaur she is, taking him and Arthur on camping trips along the Braavosian Coastlands so he falls off into wet sands instead of cobbled streets. She knows Arthur has made him a wooden training sword despite Lyanna’s express belifes he's still too young because Arthur thinks he's smart and patient enough to begin building a foundation for his form and footwork. She knows he often chooses not to speak but hears everything, knows some of his letters but can’t really read, and loves for Arthur and Lyanna to read him books before bed of Daeron the Dragonknight and King Jon Stark who created the Wolf’s Den.

She knows her brother loves Jon and Lady Lyanna and feels guilty for loving the former but not the latter. She knows he shouldn’t feel so guilty given what she’s heard of Rhaegar’s parenting from Elia.

“Jon,” says Lyanna, tugging her boy close and crouching beside him. “This is your Uncle Benjen, he’s mama’s brother.” Jon purses his lips and blinks those big gray eyes at Benjen. Ashara’s barely paying attention when Lyanna looks at her. “And this is Aunt Ashara, papa’s sister.”

Ashara looks at her in surprise, but Lyanna only has eyes for Jon, brows furrowed as he repeats the names, their relations, then nods and says, “Okay, mama. We go home? See papa?”

“Home,” agrees Lyanna, “but papa will be by later. He’s in the forge, you know this.”

Jon frowns but bobs his head in agreement. His expression brightens, and he tugs on Lyanna’s arm until she looks down at him with a smile.

“I invite a man.”

Lyanna groans and crouches down to grasp Jon’s shoulders.

“What have I said about inviting assassins to dinner?”

“I…ask…papa first?”

“Yes.”

Jon purses his lips together and peers at his mother from beneath the curtain of his bangs. A sweet smile begins to spread across his face. He bats his eyelashes in the way kids do when they know for certain they’re cute and capable of getting something over on their parents with a guileless smile and youthful innocence.

“Rude no invite now.”

Lyanna tilts back her head with a groan, and Davos chuckles while his crew giggles at Jon’s dramatics. Ashara leans against Benjen and hides her smile in his shoulder. Jon tugs his mother’s hand and pleads for her not to be upset, and she forces a smile on her face and cups her son’s chubby cheeks in her hands while he frowns and purses his lips.

“And who taught you that? Syrio? Asavvi? Papa?”

Jon’s smile grows even squished as it is and offers no answer.

Heaving a long sigh, Lyanna rises to her feet and sweeps her son into her arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek before setting him back down and taking his hand. She guides them further down the docks to where smaller boats are tied to the posts. Jon hops in and turns to take the bag Lyanna passes to him before slipping into the corner and sitting cross-legged. It’s a tight fit for so many people, but they make do. Lyanna coaches Benjen and Ashara how to row using the oars while Jon rests his chin on the lip of the boat and watches the islands of Braavos pass by with a soft smile and cheery waves.

The boat, they’re told, is the quickest route to reach the home where they’ve lived the last few years. It’s situated at the fringes of the Braavos away from most of the city’s bustling populace in a quieter section surrounded by the mountains and close enough to the Braavosian Coastlands for Lyanna to keep a horse and a pony in addition to her small herb and vegetable garden and a courtyard alongside the canal where Lyanna and Arthur train every morning while Jon sits on the steps behind them peeling oranges and reading Volantene picture books with the cat perched on his lap.

It’s not the sort of place Ashara ever pictured a woman like Lyanna Stark.

The home is quaint and charming, a far cry from the castles and holdfasts where they both grew up. A fat calico cat sits on a post along the canal and watches them with glowing yellow-gold eyes and a swishing tail. The courtyard is groomed and beautiful with fruit trees and vegetable gardens across from herbs. The laundry hangs on a line to dry, and a familiar man with silvery curls stands along the canal with a crooked smile and olive-toned skin.

“Papa!” Jon calls, scrambling onto the edge of the boat and leaping towards the canal while Davos ties the boat to the same post the cat sits on. Arthur catches Jon with ease that says he expects this sort of response and Lyanna rolls her eyes but laughs, giving Arthur her hand and allowing him to help her onto land.

“You’re supposed to be at the forge.”

Arthur hums in agreement but doesn’t apologize, pressing a kiss to Lyanna’s temple and passing Jon into her arms.

“Little sister, you look well.”

“Liar,” teases Ashara with a weak smile and watery eyes as she wraps her arms around her brother’s neck. She cups her brother’s face in her hands. “You look well,” she confesses, surprised to find how well a mundane life has suited the brother she thought would spend life serving kings that don’t deserve protection and their long-suffering families rather than having one of their own. Arthur looks sheepish at her words, but she places a hand on his cheek. “I’m glad you’re well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this could easily be misinterpreted as Ashara abandoning Elia, and, I mean, she is definitely choosing not to return to King's Landing when Elia has said she'll take her back. But with a few notable exceptions (Oberyn for example), the life of lords in Westeros is pretty insular, they spend most of their lives in their keeps, occasionally leaving to see their bannermen, to foster, to go to war, to attend tourneys, but a vast majority of their work must be done from their keeps. Women probably saw even less of the country and their world than men. This is Ashara's shot to get out, to see the world, and have a viable career that makes her more than a wife and a mother, and it would be difficult to have that after having a bastard child. It would be bad in King's Landing too, and I can't imagine from what I've read of Elia and Ashara's friendship that Elia wouldn't want that for Ashara, a chance to have that freedom. It's not so much about loyalty as it is a personal opportunity to have a different and better life than she'd have in Westeros and definitely in King's Landing.
> 
> Jaqen H'Gar and Syrio will make brief appearances like Melisandre, but a lot of what I'm trying to building Essos is connecting the two worlds that Daenerys and Arya discovered a lot later that will be needed and were needed in the show's cannon during the war with White Walkers. Jon's not Daenerys so he's definitely not going to be Breaker of Chains, even with the canon divergence, it's still important for me that Daenerys fills that roll, it was a major moment for her but I also think she needs a lot of lessons in governance in this story before she gets there. From what I understand Jaqen H'Gar and the Faceless Man that trains Arya in the book are not the same, and while I've done a lot of research to pull in specific things from the book, I just love Jaqen H'Gar, so here we are. Some of these people are just in a fun place to interconnect in ways they wouldn't have otherwise.
> 
> I just finished writing a chapter about Aegon, and I've seen a strange mix of characterizations of Aegon Targaryen. But I have really specific plans for his character arc, considering how smart he is in this story, his mood swings between his mother and father are largely deprived of picking up on the tensions between his parents and his father's expectations for him. Despite his age, he definitely notices and rebels in a typical four-year old fashion: emotional outbursts.


	7. Lyanna

Once, Lyanna could never imagine a life in a quaint house along a quiet canal where she tends to her son and a garden and lives happily with some semblance of a husband who teaches her to spar and keeps house as well as she does. She couldn’t imagine cooking Braavosi seafood with one of the most sought after courtesans in the city while the First Sword of the Sealord teaches her son water dancing beneath the impassive gaze of a Faceless Man and Ser Arthur Dayne sets the table with a smuggler and pretends not to watch his sister flirt with the brother Lyanna once feared destined to ride off to the Wall and not return.

Of course, she also couldn’t imagine leaving Westeros for Essos, becoming an apprentice in the House of the Red Hands, and raising a half-Targaryen prince with the Sword of the Morning who’d forgone a lifetime in the Kingsguard to run one of the most renowned, newly opened forges in Braavos.

After Robert Baratheon and Rhaegar Targaryen and a string of betrayals and broken promises, she also couldn’t imagine being in love either, but there isn’t a doubt in her mind that she loves Ser Arthur Dayne. She’s respected him since before she met him for his chivalry and nobility and skill with a sword. She’s been fond of him since he became her only companion when she’d been pregnant, grieving, and utterly alone, leagues away from her home in an unfamiliar land and deprived of her kin. She’s adored him since the first time she was woken from sleep by Jon's soft cries, and she’d groaned and thrown off the cover only to find Arthur already there changing a diaper and cleaning the boy while speaking to him in quiet whispers.

Love, that snuck up on her.

The first year she convinced herself she was too young and too naïve, that last time she’d been in love it had been infatuation, hope, and the promise of freedom along with Rhaegar’s handsomeness and flattery. With Arthur, there’s trust, respect, and gratefulness for the life and family and friendships he’d left behind to protect her and her son. Gratefulness for the way he treats her as both a lady to be protected and a capable woman whose earned her independence and honed her skills. Gratefulness for the way he loved and doted on her son in a way she doubts now Rhaegar would ever be capable of. Gratefulness for the way he helped her but didn’t hamper her, encouraged her decisions but managed her expectations.

The second year she convinced herself she was just lonely. Both of them live in a foreign land across an ocean from their families and the only home they’ve ever known with no one to rely on but each other. All Lyanna Stark has on this side of the world is Jon and Arthur. Arthur Dayne is everything she’s ever wanted in a husband, not a lord that forces her to submit but a partner in everything from the upkeep of their home to their finances to the raising of the son that may not be his by blood but is as much his as hers nonetheless. There’s no secrets between them, not anymore. He tells her in tense, choked whispers of sealords and magisters and Dothraki that underpay him and ensure he can’t fight back and merchants that try to sell him inferior material for more money. She tells him of the people she treats in the House of the Red Hands and cries when she speaks of her dying patients and the horrible way their families treat them sometimes. It’s difficult to be that vulnerable with another person and not develop some type of feelings for them.

The third year she admitted to herself she was attracted to Arthur as a man. She didn’t look at him and see Old Valyrian beauty and sigh over the living embodiment of the songs and poems she used to read as a child of the Age of Heroes and height of the Targaryen dynasty. It wasn’t with infatuation or girlish naivety that made her heart beat faster when she looked at him. She wanted Arthur Dayne in ways that would make a septa blush and scold her for indecent thoughts. She wanted his calloused hands on her skin, the hard planes of his body pressing her down into the bed they shared, his mouth on hers. She wanted him to make her feel wrung out and heady and sensual and loved. She wanted him to make her feel as good physically as he did emotionally. There was nothing sweet or romantic about the way she looked at Arthur, at the way her body responded to Arthur. It’s nothing like Rhaegar; she’d idolized him with a romantic innocence torn from her the first time he’d touched her body like he owned her. The way she wants Arthur is hot and dirty and visceral.

The fourth year she’d woken up the morning of her day off surprised to find her bed empty and house quiet. Most days she woke before Arthur, his arm thrown over her waist and body pressed hotly against her own. Most days she woke with Jon babbling to the cat, flipping through books in the sitting room and eating grapes. She’d wandered from her bed and found the house empty, the courtyard quiet, but Jon’s quiet laughter drifted over the gate accompanied by the soft rumble of Arthur’s voice. She poked out her head and balked at finding a gorgeous Dothraki mare stomping its hoof in the side yard and eating oats out of Jon’s hand, tickling his palm while he giggled and looked over his shoulder at Arthur crouched behind him.

“For mama? She like?”

“Your mama loves horses. They used to call her a centaur in Westeros,” he’d whispered. Jon wrinkled his nose and asked what a centaur was, hand stroking over the whispers on the mare’s snout with a soft smile while Arthur told him about Lyanna’s talent as an equestrian.

She was grateful to him and relied on him and wanted him, and maybe all of those things together are what love is supposed to be. But even after all these years, Arthur Dayne still lives like a Kingsguard, celibate and devoted to the protection of the royal family even if that family member is a cast off prince that shouldn’t exist.

Arthur trails into the room later than usual, the candle already burnt almost down to the bottom and Lyanna hunched over the direwolf she’s embroidering in one of Jon’s tunics, ever devoted to her house despite the distance and time she’s been away. Benjen had past out in Jon’s room not long after supper concluded while Davos and his crew gambled away a diverse collection of coins from throughout the free cities. Lyanna left Arthur to his sister, watching them sit out by the canal and speak in quiet tones, not pausing when Jon toddled over to flop dramatically into Arthur’s lap.

He pauses in the doorway and smiles at her, shy rather than his typical self-assured grin.

“Jon’s asleep?”

“He didn’t even make it halfway through Ashara’s dramatic rendition of the Field of Fire. Too much excitement.”

“And Ashara?”

“Settled into the room with Asavvi who’s enlightening her on the glories of recreational sex.”

Lyanna snorts but nods, unsurprised. Asavvi’s attitudes towards sex is mixed and evolving. Her mother had been a Meerenese slave taken by the Dothraki horde during a raid, and most of Asavvi’s early introductions to sex had been nothing near positive. Yet she enjoyed sex. She didn’t enjoy sex with her numerous wealthy clients, but she enjoyed the power and prestige of being a famed Braavosi courtesan. Lyanna never balked at her tangled feelings towards sex. Between a lifetime of duty, her brief affair with Rhaegar, and her evolving feelings towards Arthur, she could relate to the fear and shame and desire weaving a tangled web in her heart.

“It’ll be good to have them,” says Lyanna, “Benjen and Ashara. My brother says he wants to be a Faceless Man.”

“He has a better chance of joining the Golden Company.”

Lyanna scoffs and sets aside Jon’s tunic to wind her growing hair into a braid. It’s growing longer than she’d like, and soon enough, it would become so troublesome she’d hack it off with her knife and have to endure Jon’s laughter when Arthur sits her down to even out the mess she’s made of her head.

“Maybe the Company of the Rose. At least then he’ll be surrounded by northmen.”

Her words trail off, eyebrows furrowing together.

It’s something, seeing Jon with her baby brother. They both have the look of the north, of the Starks of old, and even Jon had seen it, fingers rubbing together strands of Benjen’s dark hair and hands tracing over the bones of his face. Braavos hasn’t been terrible, hasn’t felt like an exile really save for moments when she longs for home and must resign herself to the knowledge that it’s not safe to go back. How hard must it be for Jon, though, to be surrounded by a culture he’s grown up in but isn’t truly apart of.

“Lya,” says Arthur softly, sitting in front of her and cupping her cheek in his hand. “What is it?”

“Do you think I’ve deprived Jon of his culture, his traditions by raising him in a foreign land without any family?”

Arthur sighs and runs his fingers through his tangled curls. He shifts to across from her, hands holding hers between their laps and expression conflicted like he isn’t certain she’ll like his answer. Her heart pounds furiously in her chest, palms sweating against Arthur’s. She licks her chapped lips and swallows anxiously and awaits his answer.

“I think part of the reason Rhaegar is mad is because the Targaryens are insular, genetically and socially.”

“That’s not—”

“Just listen,” he pleads. Lyanna sighs but nods her head, holding his gaze and waiting. “Royalty is insular, nobility is insular. We hole up in our holdfasts and castles and stay with our own even if they’re horrible people. After a few generations, there’s an otherness, a separation between highborns and smallfolk, a belief that we’re better because of our insulation from their lives and their struggles and their needs. It’s awful, really, and it creates a cycle of horrific behavior that’s supported and endorsed by the community we grew up in. Ser Gerold Hightower despised Jamie Lannister because he judged Aerys on the way he treated Rhaella, on his violent outbursts and obsession with fire. He believed that our vows mean that we’re to protect the king no matter who or what that king is. That’s honor. He believed that, duty stands above everything even righteousness, even fairness, even happiness, even morality. I believed that too. So did you for much of your life, I’m sure, because that’s how we were raised.

“Jon isn’t like that. You and I, we’ve ensured that he’ll never be a Targaryen prince, but he’ll be a good man because he wasn’t raised surrounded by immutable tradition. Jon is never going to seduce a fifteen year old girl to bear the third head of a dragon from some ancient Valyrian prophecy because he’s sat around a fire and listened to Melisandre bicker with Jaqen H’gar over the nature of death and gods and prophecy while Syrio Forel points a sword at him and asks: ‘What do we say to death, little wolf?’”

“Not today,” they chorus with a smile.

“Family, Duty, Honor. Fire and Blood. Winter is Coming. They’re not just words to him. The woman who taught him Dothraki is a whore. He loves her, he respects her, so he’ll respect all women regardless of their profession because of her influence. Davos Seaworth taught him about boats and gives the best advice of anyone I’ve ever met, and he’s a smuggler so Jon will never look at a man and see only a criminal and not the person underneath. A Faceless Man taught him how to catch crawfish and a fanatical red priestess taught him to dream and the First Sword of the Sealord teaches him to dance. Jon isn’t deprived by the way you’ve chosen to raise him, he’s enriched by it. People aren’t numbers to him, aren’t ideas, aren’t mentioned in council meetings or faces he sees in taverns when he plays the harp or foreign entities he knows about but doesn’t really know. The life he’s led will make him a good person…as long as we don’t mess it up too badly.”

Lyanna laughs and looks down at their interlocked hands, fingers playing with his, a nervous tick she’s developed and remains unable to quash.

“Don’t be angry.”

“Say it then,” teases Arthur.

“I don’t want to stay in Braavos forever.”

“I’m terribly shocked,” drones Arthur, bored and sarcastic. Lyanna gapes, and Arthur grins, shrugging one shoulder. “You’re a northerner. You like riding horses across the coastlands and open spaces and freedom. And you spent your whole life living in Winterfell and several years certain you’d never see life outside Storm’s End. Jon getting old enough that we needn’t rely on a city for survival. I know you, Lyanna. You enjoy cities even less than sitting still.”

“Go on,” huffs Lyanna, “tell me your grand plan, then.”

“Norvos.”

“Norvos?”

“A little to the south, just outside the city. I need the city for work, but the forge is reputable enough that I can move and not lose too much business. You could be a healer in Norvos or raise horses on the banks of the Noyne.” Lyanna hums with a delighted smile, eyes never leaving Arthur’s face, smile growing. “Davos and Ned have, apparently, become quite close. He wants to strengthen the north for when you return with Jon and has recruited the knighted Ser Davos Seaworth and the crew of the _Black Betha_ to trade northern goods with Essos so we’ll never be deprived of Davos’s vaunted company.” Lyanna chuckles at his words, certain in the knowledge he’s come to depend on Davos’s level head almost as much as she has.

“It’s logical,” hedges Lyanna, trying to hide her smile.

Arthur’s lopsided grin makes it difficult to hide her own, even more so when he leans forward to press his forehead against her, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her and holding her gaze as her cheeks warm.

“It’s not set in stone,” he whispers between them. “Whatever you want, Lya. Wherever you want to go. As long as I’ve you and Jon, we’ll find a way to make it work.”

Tears fill her eyes, and she hooks her hands around his neck, fingers playing with the hairs at the base of his neck. His hands wind around her waist, pulling her closer until she’s sat in his lap, forehead pressed against Arthur’s and breaths shared between them. His cheeks are rough and stubbled, and he’ll bear the indignity for a couple more days before refusing to ask her shave his face while Jon smacks the cream between his hands and squeals when he realizes it won’t come off on its own. She loves that she knows these little details about him, that the life they’re building together is both comfortable in its predictability and adventurous enough that she doesn’t feel stifled or trapped.

“I don’t know what we would have done without you,” she tells him in a shaky whisper.

“Lya—”

“I thought I was a woman grown when I married him, you know, when I ran away, but I was a girl, a child, little more than a decade older than Jon. I love him, and I would have done my best, but I didn’t know how to survive outside of Westeros, outside of a castle, outside of a marriage. Nobody taught me that until you did. I thank the gods, mine and yours and even Melisandre’s cursed R’hllor, every day that we have you.”

Arthur’s hands cup her face and draw her in for a kiss, not a quick peck as they’ve exchanged with increasing frequency. He holds her tight enough to promise he wants her but gentle enough to allow her refusal. She sinks her fingers deeper into his hair, blunted fingernails scratching against his scalp, and melts into the kiss. They skip the awkward firsts and sweet closed mouth kisses she remembers throughout much of her early courtship with Rhaegar and fall into desperate passion built for years, familiar and yet heady, cloying and hot and all-consuming that sets her soul aflame and leaves her throbbing between her legs. His hands burn where they skim over her curves and down her thighs, slipping beneath her rumpled nightgown and hiking up the fabric until his calloused hands are gripping her naked waist, mound pressed against his clothed arousal and drawing a broken moaning from her lips.

He presses a kiss to the column of her throat, hands trailing over the curves she’d not possessed until Jon’s birth and tweaking the nipples of breasts that swelled and never quite returned to their original size. She writhes in his lap, head thrown back, holding his head to her feverish skin and desperate in a way she can’t ever remember feeling before.

“The first time I ever saw you, you were falling off that thrice-damned stallion in Harrenhall,” he tells her, pressing kisses against her prickling skin. “You were a child, a girl, and I did know that, but you were beautiful nonetheless.”

Lyanna scoffs and shifts, suddenly uncomfortable at the mention of her beauty, the single trait of any worth ever mentioned by the men who’d sought her heart, her hand, or her bed. Arthur’s hands tighten around her ribs and hold her still, eyes dark with lust but steady with sincerity hold hers.

“Not your face. Your spirit, your passion, your commitment. I’d never seen anyone, man or woman, get thrown off a horse so many times only to get back on until it accepted you, until it trusted you.” The tears return, prickling her eyes and threatening to spill, but she holds Arthur’s gaze and waits. “I knew you were a girl when Rhaegar pursued you, when he wedded you, when he took you, and I knew it wasn’t right. I’ve never regretted anything as much as allowing my vows as a Kingsguard to interfere with what I know to be right. You deserved better from me and Rhaegar and everybody who stood by and allowed madness to reign.” She smiles, a tremulous thing, traitorous tear falling from her eye. He wipes it away and cups her face in his hand. “Maybe you’re not a lady, Lya, but you’re a good woman, a better mother, and the strongest person I know. I love you, and I want you, but I have absolutely nothing to offer not even my name.”

That he cares enough to have considered what happens five years, ten years, twenty years from now if they ever take Jon back to Westeros is more than she’d ever expected or received before. It’s moving and heartening and the biggest declaration she’s been offered by any suitor in her life.

They may both be presumed dead, but they’re very much alive.

Arthur is a Kingsguard. Lyanna is married.

She doesn’t care in the slightest. People have already said and thought the worst of her, name forever etched into Westerosi history as a temptress and harlot whose infatuation with the married Targaryen prince began a war as though neither Rhaegar nor Aerys nor even Brandon played any roll at all. She already has a son living in Essos as an exile to avoid a life of shame and degradation, and if any child she’s blessed to share with Arthur faces the same, she’s not afraid to leave behind her country and family to give her children better. Lyanna Stark has made worse choices in her life than loving Arthur Dayne.

“I have you and Jon. I’m yours, and you’re mine, completely, not in word alone. That’s enough,” promises Lyanna.

Their eyes meet, then their lips, falling into each other in body as much as soul. Her nightgown is tossed aside, his breeches following afterwards, and they explore each other until the candle burns out. Lyanna falls asleep with her head on Arthur’s chest and his taste on her lips, body sated and singing, and whole for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Arthur working at a forge with largely influenced by the fic i need you to run to me, lover by jetblacklilac (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16588637/chapters/38910716#workskin) that I really really wish would be updated, but it's not far-fetched. It's been four years, Arthur's a swordsman, and he grew up in a castle that probably had a smith and while he wouldn't have been adept or knowledgeable when he left Westeros, there's no reason why he couldn't learn. I really wanted him present in their lives, and that made being a sellsword a little problematic. We're definitely going to get to sellswords, Jon needs to learn about war and start squiring, but it's not going to happen yet and Arthur needed a job that allowed him to be present in their lives.
> 
> Part of the reason both Ashara and Benjen came from Westeros was to teach Jon about his culture and country in addition to being around his family. I think my biggest problem with Daenerys in the show was how she felt she was the rightful queen of Westeros when she was technically a foreign invader. She'd heard stories about Westeros but didn't know anything about Westeros, it's people, it's needs, it's culture and still went in there with the same make-or-break mindset as in Yunkai, Astapor, and Meeren. She's technically a foreign who brought a foreign army to invade and conquer. Jon won't be going back for the throne, but it'll still be important for him to understand the nuances of the culture from people who lived there. But I think it makes sense that Lyanna feels guilt for isolating Jon from his culture and family, especially when it was feasible for him to stay there despite how difficult his life might have been. She made these choices and feels Jon is paying the price because in a way he is.
> 
> It's been four years, but it makes sense for Lyanna to be a little gun-shy when it comes to love and sex. The last time she fell in love, she ended a marriage, started a war, and ended up being exiled from her country; the last time she had sex she was being used as a broodmare for a prophetic child of ice and fire to fight in a war for the dawn. She's old enough now to recognize more of the consequences of her decisions and be more thoughtful and critical about diving into decisions that can have far-reaching consequences for herself and her son. When she got involved with Rhaegar, she was young and idealistic and selfish and short-sighted, and she can't afford that anymore. She loves and is attracted to Arthur because she knows him and trusts, but he's also her closest confidante and all she's had to lean on and confide in for years. It makes sense that she would be hesitant and conflicted. I think after everything she should be too.
> 
> I'll probably post another chapter today. I'm really far ahead, and I've been posting based on chapters so that I stay reasonably ahead. So there will probably be another chapter later of Ned and Elia in King's Landing.


	8. Ned

**289AC King's Landing**

In the days since the Greyjoy Rebellion, Ned wonders often how he became stuck with Thoros of Myr. The boisterous drunkard of a red priest more inclined to whoring than preaching and waves around a cheap sword coated in wildfire that makes Tobho Mott despise him even more that most in the Red Keep. He’s easy to spot at the celebration feast Ned wishes he could beg not to attend, bushy red hair, cup of sloshing ale in hand, serving girl on his lap, and laugh too loud surrounded by northmen who’ve become taken with his outlandishness. He reminds Ned of Robert most days, with a pang that fills his heart; he misses the brother of his heart despite having held his baby daughter in his arms and realized Lyanna and Robert would have never been a good match, because Lyanna would never be a lady, not the sort Robert wanted or the kind Rhaegar needed.

Both men preferred a woman like Queen Elia Martell, a woman that reminded Ned of his lady wife. She’s beautiful and serene, well-mannered and even-tempered, she smiles for everyone including Cersei Lannister and King Rhaegar while stabbing them silently with her eyes. She’s a good queen, a great one even, inclined to care for the people while Rhaegar focuses on building defenses and strengthening interhouse alliances. And yet, that too, comes from Elia Martell. Like her mother before her but with far more tact, she brokers alliances and manages friendships and makes clever introductions. She keeps her distance from Jon Connington who despises her openly and plies Varys and Petyr Baelish with soft words and careful warnings, ruling the Red Keep with an iron fist that feels more like a velvet nudge.

It’s impressive, truly, and not something his sister ever could have or would have wanted to do.

Ned realizes this now too, that time and marriage would not have tamed Lyanna Stark, it would have broken her.

The sound of Thoros singing the Dornishman’s Wife while Queen Elia giggles into her hand, King Rhaegar broods, and Oberyn and Lewyn Martell murder him with their eyes has Ned moving.

Queen Rhaella’s no longer here to despise Thoros publicly, having been removed to Dragonstone with her children when she overreached her authority and allegedly supported Tywin Lannister and Jon Connington in removing Elia due to her infertility. Jon Connington does this in Rhaella's place, and Ned’s reminded of exactly how he’d ended up with a Myrish red priest in the frozen north.

According to Catelyn, Thoros of Myr had been introduced officially to court after the rebellion. He’d been introduced to newly crowned King Rhaegar, Queen Elia, Princess Daenerys, Prince Viserys, Princess Rhaenys, and Crown Prince Aegon, the last of whom Rhaegar had introduced proudly as the prince who was promised. Thoros had taken a look at him, then the rest of the kids, and said, ‘No.’ When Rhaegar protested about the three heads of the dragon, Thoros’s response had been more savage.

_Have you not considered it means literal dragons? Or perhaps that it’s another nonsensical mumbling from a half-mad Targaryen? Or that as long as your family’s line remains unbroken the promised prince could be born a hundred years from now? No, this is not the Prince that was Promised, and a mistranslation of Valyrian forgets that prince also means princess…your Grace._

Elia had laughed.

Rhaegar had demanded him removed from the Red Keep.

Rhaella had ordered him exiled from the city.

When the Martells refused to take him upon insult paid to Elia and her children (though Ned would argue the insult falls more to Rhaegar and his Targaryen ancestors), the task had fallen to the Starks, treated as they are like bastardized good family, beholden but unacknowledged. Ned didn’t mind it so much, not now that the Martells had accepted possession of Theon Greyjoy after a gentle reminder they’d already refused Thoros. Even drunk, handsy, and half-mad, Ned would rather have Thoros.

“Off to bed with you,” he tells Thoros, dragging him to his feet over the vocal protestations of the northmen. Ned shoves Thoros forward and leans down to whisper, “Let’s try not to embarrass ourselves before the royal family so much as Thoros, hm?”

They grumble, and Howland chuckles.

Ned gets a glimpse of the prince and princess on his way to Thoros’s chambers.

They look far happier chasing a cat through the hallways while Barristan Selmy stands as silent guard beside their harried septa than they do seated at the high table with their father and king. Both children gravitate towards Elia, though in front of the court, their smiles never meet their eyes. Rhaenys, Ned’s heard, has been forbidden from the presence of her cousins, Oberyn’s bastard daughters and Arianne both, after her time fostering in Dorne due to the unpleasant tendencies she’d developed; Ned assumed that meant a modicum of independence, a preference for the spear, and a habit of wearing the fitted breeches Oberyn’s paramour, Ellaria Sand, often wears. Aegon’s not yet fostered, though rumor says he’ll land in Highgarden rather than the Vale with the disgraced Jon Arryn and his son Robyn. His point of contestation with his father comes from his disinterest in swordplay and close friendship with their hostage, Renly Baratheon, though Ned finds that unfair after all he’s heard of Rhaegar.

When he deposits Thoros in his room for the night, he turns and finds Queen Elia waiting at the end of the hall for him, hands folded in front of her and soft smile on her face. Brynden Tully, his wife’s own uncle the Blackfish, stands beside her in a crisp white cloak, watching in amusement as Ned considers every possibility to avoid this conversation.

Petyr Baelish, as Ned’s wife would have it, says Queen Elia has taken the Blackfish to her bed. Of course, Petyr also says the same of Jamie Lannister, Sandor Clegane, Barristan Selmy, Stannis Baratheon, and her own uncle, Lewyn Martell, though that one Ned’s dismissed outright. Martells are not Targaryens, and after what a Targaryen has done to her, they never would want to be. Ned cares not for the truthfulness of the situation. After the disgraced that has been heaped upon Elia by his own sister, her husband, and allegedly her good family, Ned wouldn’t care if she bedded every man from Sunspear to Queenscrown, and he’d defend her from rumors regardless.

“Lord Stark.”

“Your Grace.”

Elia hums and inclines her head, “Walk with me?”

Ned wants to say no and sees from the amusement in the Blackfish’s eyes that he knows this well. Still, he sighs and resigns himself to walking beside the queen through the empty halls of the Red Keep. Music and a cacophony of voices drift through the halls, but they remain quiet until they reach the garden, bathed in moonlight.

“Your man, Thoros of Myr, I quite enjoy him.”

“Your Grace?”

“You had to have seen to understand. It’s not every day a man tells Rhaegar he’s wrong, he’s misguided, he’s mad. I do believe that last person to do so was me.”

That doesn’t surprise Ned in the slightest. Of everyone in Westeros, Elia Martell maybe the only person with the gumption to do so, but he can imagine how sweet it must have been to watch a red priest tell her faithless, dreamer husband that the prophecy he’d burnt the realm for, the horrible things he’s done to bring said prophecy to fruition had all been for naught.

“About the song…”

Elia waves away Ned’s apology. “I know what the Seven Kingdoms think of Dorne. We’re lustful and selfish and savage. It’s not so different from what they think of the north. Oberyn’s not helped alter that opinion no matter how much I love my brother. Nor had Aerys and Rhaella, quite honestly. _She smells Dornish_. That’s what he said about my daughter, you know. Everyone does, I suppose, but it’s Rhaella’s reaction no one wants to recall. She looked over my daughter and said: _Perhaps the next one will be a dragon._ ” Ned grimaces at the insult, and Elia nods, fingers stroking over the petal of a blooming rose. “And what do you think of Dorne, Lord Stark?”

“I think Prince Doran is too ambitious, Prince Oberyn reckless, and you a credit to your house and kingdom. I think House Stark has done you a grave insult, but it’s to you not your house so I’d never bend for House Martell. I barely bend for House Targaryen.”

Elia laughs and nods her head in agreement. “Doran learned at the knee of our mother. He reminds me of her every day, for better and worse. Oberyn learned there too, but he learned what he didn’t want to be. I suspect he’s very like your sister while you are very like me. We are the dutiful children, and we suffer for it. They are the free spirits, and we suffer them and envy them the freedom bought off our sacrifice.”

“You suffer more than I, your Grace,” says Ned truthfully.

“Women always do, but you’ve learnt that lesson already, haven’t you?” Ned stiffens, and Elia straightens with a knowing, conspiratorial smile. She links her arm through Ned’s and pulls him deeper in the garden. “I don’t hate her, you know, your sister. She was loved dearly by her family, like me, but she was surrounded by men. People think that’s better but it isn’t truly. Men don’t see a woman’s world. Men want their daughters and sisters to believe in gallantry and chivalry, love and honor, faithfulness and contentment, but women want their daughters to know the world for what it is. It’s our duty to marry faithless men that won’t love us, who may well disgrace us, who offer us nothing but babes and keeps, and they’ll expect us to be grateful for it. Gilded cages and loveless marriages, that’s what mothers teach their daughters. That the world is not a song, and we’re stronger for it.”

Ned looks at his queen with surprise, and she pulls him to sit on a bench beside her.

“At her age she ought have known better, but some girls don’t. I’m not angry at her, not anymore. Rhaegar knew exactly what he was doing and believing himself in love to alleviate his guilt is no excuse either. We all make mistakes and gods know I don’t want to be beholden to the ones I’ve made at five and ten.”

Ned nods not trusting himself to speak. What is there to say really? Regardless of his love for his sister, his loathing of Rhaegar, he can’t deny the part his family played in causing Elia pain. Much of the blame he lays with Rhaegar, but Lyanna ought to have known better despite he and his family’s insistence on a marriage with Robert Baratheon that would have broken her spirit and pushed her to desperation. He’s grateful for Elia’s compassion but feels like they’re treading into dangerous waters nonetheless.

“So tell me, Ned,” the address is familiar enough to startle him, “how is Lyanna and Arthur and her son?” When Ned balks, Elia laughs again. “I’ve had some time to think about this, and unlike Rhaegar, I live in Westeros not my dreams. Benjen Stark knighted in Starfall. Ashara becoming a governess in Winterfell, then both of them running off together to Braavos. She may not have told me outright, but she’s my closest friend, she told me enough. Lyanna’s a highborn lady; I doubt she could’ve survived all these years alone with her child in Essos, and if it was Rhaegar’s promised Visenya, it would have been prudent but not necessary to fake her death and run away. Am I wrong?”

“The boy’s no threat,” promises Ned plaintively.

“Unlike my brothers I believe you, Lord Stark,” replies Elia with a soft smile and one-shouldered shrug that’s almost dismissive, though disinterested is the last thing he ever thought he’d experience from the queen in regards to her son and heir. He wonders how much this disinterest has been borne of Rhaegar’s obsessions. If thwarting Rhaegar’s beloved prophecy is more important now than seeing her son sit upon the Iron Throne. “What else was she to do? I know my brothers well, they’d have killed the babe, Rhaegar would have disavowed him, and he would have been raised a bastard. I envy her that freedom. Envy her the ability to raise her child as she sees fit. I couldn’t even nurse mine. Rhaella said it wasn’t proper for a prince of the realm to be nursed at his mother’s breast, and Rhaegar agreed. Rhaegar said it isn’t proper for a princess of the realm to wield a spear, and Jon Connington agreed. What wouldn’t you do for your children, Lord Stark?”

“Nothing,” he admits.

“My daughter is a warrior. My son is a scholar. And my husband is lost in dreams and prophecy. I suppose your nephew will return?”

“Eventually,” confesses Ned with uncertainty. He doesn’t feel the admission is a betrayal to his sister, but he wonders about Elia’s motives nonetheless. The very admission of this child’s life, Lyanna and Arthur’s exodus, is treason of the highest order. Rhaegar and Dorne would not take well to its revelation. “She wants him to know the north, know Westeros, know his family but not now, not yet.”

“I agree,” states Elia. “I don’t want enmity between siblings, and as everyone is so fond of pointing out, I am Dornish. My children should know their brother.”

“Your Grace…” Ned starts to argue.

Elia rises to her feet and smiles down at him, a look both demure and predatory, offering no room for opposition. She cuts an imposing figure standing there in her finest, looking down her nose at him in moonlight. Beautiful and deadly and every inch a queen. The most alarming part of the conversation is how Ned doesn’t think she’s aiming to intimidate him, yet she manages well nonetheless.

“Someday soon, Lord Stark, I hope to receive a letter inviting my son to foster in Winterfell. If a young Stark cousin has recently arrived from across the Narrow Sea in company of strange parents, all the better, you understand?”

“I do, your Grace.” Elia dips her head and turns to leave when Ned speaks up again. “If, perhaps, your daughter would like to foster and Dorne is not an option, Bear Island offers no shortage of exceptional women to strengthen ties between Dorne and the North. I also hear tell that there is a girl on Tarth whose becoming quite a special sort of lady.”

Elia smiles and tilts her head.

“I thank you for your advice, Lord Stark, and I await your letter with eagerness.”

She slips away, and Howland appears from behind, standing in the shadow of a rose bush with a bemused smile on his face. So infrequently does he leave the Neck, Ned had been quite confused at his insistence of coming along to Kong’s Landing this time. He supposed this is why Howland had chosen to come along. He always did have an uncanny ability to foresee change.

“Elia Martell is an exceptional woman,” mutters Howland. Ned hums his agreement, more unsettled than enchanted by the queen. “When the letter is sent and Rhaenys placed, inform me. I've seen Jon and Aegon will need Jojen as Rhaenys will need Meera.”

“Your daughter,” hedges Ned carefully, “she’s quite the warrior, is she not?”

“We’ve relied on men to protect and defend, but the Long Night is coming. And we must all be ready, sons and daughters both.”

Ned nods thoughtfully and thinks his wife will not be the least bit amenable to the idea that their daughters ought to be taught to wield a spear or a blade like a wilding, like a Dornishman. He isn’t opposed, not after everything that’s happened. It’s not uncommon in the North where life is short and harsh, even is father had turned a blind eye to Lyanna until he realized her marriage was rapidly approaching and his wild sister hadn’t calmed in the slightest. Catelyn, though, is a proper southern woman. Women are meant to embroider and dance, be polite and demure, run households and bear children and keep to their gods. Years living in the north has not altered these ideas in the least.

He’ll weather his wife’s ire and follow his queen’s commands, for all their sakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoros of Myr, according to what I've found, was introduced in Robert's court after the rebellion but had been in King's Landing longer and became well-liked by Robert Baratheon. I highly doubt Rhaegar would have enjoyed him, especially if he openly defied Rhaegar's insistent belief in this three-headed dragon. I wanted him in a position to help at both the wall and with Aegon in King's Landing and this put him in a unique position to do both.
> 
> At this point it's been six years since the rebellion, Rhaenys is 9 and Rhaegar is still being Rhaegar. It makes sense that a lot of the anger has dulled towards Lyanna, especially since it hasn't been renewed, she's stayed gone in Essos and avoiding trouble while Rhaegar's continued to infuriate Elia by his treatment towards the family, the realm, and his responsibilities yet again. Elia's a smart woman, and she knows to strengthen the realm and her children's security, she needs to be on good terms with the North, especially when they're growing stronger and have a prince of the realm hidden away in Essos. It's ingrained in her culture not to mistreated Jon just because of the circumstances of his birth no matter how she feels about Lyanna and her actions, but it's also wise to foster affection between the kids. If they view themselves as family, then there will never be a dance of dragons. As for her brother, I think Oberyn wouldn't hurt Jon in hindsight after a great many years, but I think in the moment he could have been dangerous. As for Doran while the show painted him as this really wise, gentle soul, what I've found in my research about his characterization in the book, his ambition could definitely have proven a threat to Jon's life. As for Ashara, she's Elia's friend and trusts her enough to tell her just enough to give her an idea of what's going on but not enough to betray her brother's confidence and, potentially, Jon's safety if anyone found out and made the connections. Elia's also obviously not having all these affairs, but betwen Baelish, Cersei, and Viserys, this is a war, and the easiest thing to attack with Elia is her reputation since she's proving so capable at everything else.
> 
> I've seen a lot of representations of Aegon in fanfiction and read a lot about what the potentially fake Aegon Targaryen in the books was like, I wanted to go in a completely different direction and make him a scholar like Rhaegar and a genius, more Bran the Builder than Aegon the Conqueror. Even though characters that knew Rhaegar said it preferred scholarly and artistic pursuits over the sword, I have this picture of Rhaegar being so dead set on his ideas for his dragon heads that he won't allow them to deviate. Based on their names and the decisions he made in regards to their parentage, I expect him to put them into boxes based on who he wants them to represent in order to satisfy the picture of the prophecy he has in his head and where they all fit. It's fine for Daenerys to be a warrior-queen but not Rhaenys because she's not meant to be 'the Visenya' while Aegon is not meant to be scholarly like Rhaegar, he's meant to be a conqueror.
> 
> I don't have big plans for Rhaella, and I have one chapter currently written in her perspective, but she's not the big bad wolf. I just think that it wouldn't make sense for them to be one big happy family. Elia and Rhaella are very different people and have very different ideas of parenting, of ruling, of a woman's place all while she was being tortured and hurt by her husband and brother. It's difficult to be unilaterally kind when you're miserable so it's not that she hates Elia or was intentionally being hateful. She was offering opinions and making observations in the worst way possible, and the reason Elia exiled her to Dragonstone has little to do with overstepping in any context and a lot more to do with managing Rhaegar's expectations of Daenerys, Aegon, and Rhaenys.


	9. Rhaella

In most circumstances, Rhaella Targaryen hates surprises. She supposes it’s somewhat understandable after everything she’d gone through in her life. The surprise of a betrothal to her least favorite brother because a hedge-witch recalled an ancient family prophecy to the forefront of her father’s mind and the certainty that the promised prince would descend from the line of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen. The surprise of Summerhall catching fire while she suffered in childbirth, killing her entire family save her cursed husband, in an instant as she brought Rhaegar in to the world. The surprise realizing her son was as obsessed with prophecy as her father had been if not more and abandoned his wife and children in King’s Landing with her insane husband on the eve of war to marry and impregnate the Stark girl in Dorne of all places.

Very little surprised Rhaella Targaryen anymore, and most surprises in her experience never led to anything particularly good regardless.

There were few exceptions.

The surprise of bringing a healthy daughter into the world, her beautiful Daenerys (and the unhappy surprise of realizing Rhaegar thought _her_ the third head to his precious dragon leading to a surprise betrothal to Aegon).

The surprise of being exiled to Dragonstone with her children to prevent any further meddling in political affairs (which stung to be honest and rankled when she thought of Tywin Lannister’s glee at seeing her influence marginalized).

The surprise of seeing familiar sails on the horizon, signaling he’d come home (though the biggest surprise had been when he’d entered King’s Landing and knelt before her asking to become her sworn shield).

Ser Bonifer Hasty was home.

After everything she’d been through, Rhaella trusted knights about as much as she trusted men, which is to say not at all. Vows are little more than words on the wind overshadowed by loyalty and fealty and often other vows. Ser Jaime Lannister, a sworn knight of the Kingsguard, put a sword through her husband’s back in defiance of one vow to uphold another. That too had been a surprise, one of the best and the worst. Gone is her brother, her husband, her tormentor, the father of her children and subject of her nightmares. And his very last order had been to burn the city to the ground with his secret cache of wildfire and wasn’t that just so like Aerys?

Newly promoted Commander of the Kingsguard Ser Barristan Selmy loathes Jaime as Ser Gerold would have, for breaking his vow and slaying his king.

Rhaella applauds his courage and curses his name in equal measure most, still confused in the space between loving the boy he’d been and hating the man he’d become. After everything, Aerys had been her brother once before he’d been everything else. She doesn’t know how to hate him wholly and completely so she settles for trying not to think of him at all, nor her misguided Rhaegar, nor her mercurial Viserys. It does her well to be free of King’s Landing and its destructive political landscape, better she leave it to younger, more ambitious folk like Elia Martell, as capable of handling it as her mother before her.

Dragonstone is more peaceful than King’s Landing.

The smallfolk here still love Targaryens more than they despise the late King Aerys. Here she can walk amongst the smallfolk with Daenerys’ small hand in hers as Rhaegar once did in King’s Landing. They can buy fresh crab from vendors by the wharf and skip rocks on the beaches and peruse the merchant stalls in the village.

It’s a different lifestyle than the one she’s used to, one she ever thought she’d lived. In her worst moments of labor, at the height of rebellion, Rhaella thought she’d never have any life with her daughter, never see her grow, hear her laugh, see her smile. She thought she would die in the birthing bed and leave her children to a life on the run as exiles in Essos. She thanks the gods every day that Rhaegar won and curses Aerys every night for burning Rickard Stark alive over foolish words of an upstart young man she doubts even now that her son didn’t deserve.

Her life has become surprisingly simple despite being queen mother and lady of Dragonstone. This far from court she rarely receives visitors she doesn’t wish to entertain. Most mornings she breaks her fast with Bonifer, then pries Daenerys from her bed for lessons with the septa and spends her mornings going over accounts with the castellan and maester before a light lunch with her daughter, preferably in town so she can see the smallfolk and play with their children like an ordinary girl instead of a princess betrothed to her own bookish nephew, the crown prince of the realm. In the evenings, they learn together from either the master-at-arms or one of Bonifer’s hundred, archery, spears, swords, and daggers, desperate for her daughter to be capable of protecting herself in the way Rhaella had not been. Then in the evenings after supper, Rhaella reads her daughter histories, sometimes Targaryen histories and other times not, of ladies not unlike them, their histories not Rhaegar’s songs or pretty poetry that leaves Daenerys solemn before she’s offered a lemon cake, tea, and hurried off to bed.

Rhaella told Elia once that it wasn’t proper for a princess to nurse a child at her own breast to spare her the mutterings of the court, the disdain of women like Cersei Lannister. Perhaps it isn’t, but Rhaella had done so with Daenerys. She’d done a great many things for Daenerys she’d advised against with Elia, never even considered with Viserys.

Fostering him in Storm’s End beneath Stannis Baratheon’s intractable sense of right and wrong, squiring him under Ser Brynden Tully’s as yet untarnished honor, little had altered Viserys’ emotional outbursts, his sense of entitlement, his unquenchable anger. She wondered how different her son would be if she’d not allowed Aerys so much influence, if she’d kept him as close as she did Daenerys, if she’d shielded him more from the goings on in court. Elia had long since stopped allowing Viserys to play with Rhaenys and Aegon and no amount of argument from Rhaegar could convince her otherwise. His only friends in the world seem to be Cersei Lannister’s little Joffrey, a boy growing to be cruel, and the newly acquired hostage of Dorne, Theon Greyjoy who wasn’t suitable company for anyone let alone her already troubled son.

Then there’s Rhaegar, sweet, obsessed Rhaegar.

He’d always been a moody boy, introspective, prone to bouts of melancholy and preferential to books over swordplay. That his son follows him in the latter respect is unsurprising; his bookishness having grown more prominent since his visit to Highgarden where he’d met young Samwell Tarly on a visit from Horn Hill and discovered a kinship leading to a strong friendship over letters and drawings. Rhaella simply never foresaw Rhaegar being so selfish.

Always, Rhaegar had been a disinterested husband and distant father, but he’d never hit his wife, not like Aerys, he’d never been abusive towards his children. She thought he’d make a good king at least, compassionate for the smallfolk, thoughtful, innovative. Elia Martell is a good king; Jon Connington, Elia’s least favorite person on the small council including Littlefinger, a decent help despite their frequent and loud disagreements. Rhaegar’s not a bad king, merely a disinterested one, withdrawn in his prophecies and dreams and songs as much as he had been before, bolstered now by having his three heads of the dragon. While he cloisters himself away with maesters and hedge-witches and Red Priests from Asshai, it’s the dysfunctional duo of Elia and Jon improving roadworks, managing foreign threats, and keeping the crown out of debt. It’s all very impressive when coupled with Jon’s attempts to influence Aegon’s education, Elia’s attempts to evade him, Elia’s investigations into Pycelle while finding Rhaenys clandestine teachers for the sword while Jon tries to thwart her. Muddled in the midst of that is Tywin Lannister and Olenna Tyrell and Petyr Baelish and the spider Varys while Rhaegar goes back and forth the Citadel, and Doran pressures the crown for all sorts of things, and Ned Stark’s North hides like they’re not apart of the Seven Kingdoms at all.

Men always want sons, and yet they so often become disappointments to their father’s.

“What are you thinking of with such seriousness?”

Bonifer’s voice startles her from introspection, and she smiles at him the way she had as a girl before Aerys took so much from her and gave her three children and a gigantic mess for Elia Martell to clean up as though it’s her responsibility and not Rhaegar’s.

“You didn’t tell me you’d return today.”

“I didn’t know,” teases Bonifer at her chiding. “Apparently I’m not needed at all in King’s Landing. They give me such serious looks and promise they can handle things.”

“Can they?”

“There’s nothing to handle,” replies Bonifer, giving Rhaella a long, considering look. “Your gooddaughter, she has everything well in hand.” Rhaella huffs, and Bonifer crooks an eyebrow. “She’s an excellent queen. I cannot understand you disdain for her.”

“I have no disdain for Elia Martell. I loved her mother. I adore her.”

“Is it shame then?”

“Don’t say that word,” snaps Rhaella, stomping inside while the servants’ eyes widen, and they shuffle out of the room.

“So it is shame, then,” surmises Bonifer, following her inside at a lazy pace. “Is it true you told her she was raising her children wrong?”

“I would never,” whirls Rhaella furiously.

“So you did, then.” Rhaella clenches her fists and wonders how she could possibly have fallen in love with a man so infuriating. Her father had wondered at his plain face, Aerys at his lowbirth, and Rhaegar at his piousness, though the piety had come later, and she’d taken it grudgingly if it meant she could have him too. “Petyr Baelish has spread to half of King’s Landing that she’s sleeping with every member of the Kingsguard including her uncle.”

“And what has Rhaegar said to that?”

“What does Rhaegar ever say?”

“What has Lord Tywin said?”

“It behooves him to consider this true.”

“Of course it does, the wretched man, would that Johanna was still alive. She was a wonderful woman. How a woman like that ever wed a man like Tywin only the Seven know.”

“How does any highborn woman ever wed?”

Rhaella grimaces, thinking of her own little Daenerys.

Blood purity has been a Targaryen tendency since long before Aegon the Conqueror came to Westeros. Most people married cousins as closest kin, but no, her family married aunt and nephew, brother and sister, often and regularly. Dany liked little Aegon well enough, but she wanted more for her daughter, for her House out of an arranged marriage. There was a special sort of dysfunction begotten in wedding close kin, an inability to despise them properly no matter what they’ve done, an inability to shelter and seek advice from family, an inability to find solace in or away from them. There are little grudges that become impassable issues that stretch from childhood slights to marital problems.

Aegon and Dany would both try their hardest, but Rhaella believes now close kin are never meant to marry, and every god from the old Valyrian gods to R’hllor to the Old Gods of the North to the Seven of the Andals to the Drowned God of the Ironborn, all spit on the offspring of such unions, or at least turn their backs on them and gamble on the outcome. Three children she’d birthed and only sweet Daenerys seems clear of the taint.

“It’s not like Elia,” says Rhaella instead, “she wants love, devotion, faithfulness not just passion. She wants things she’s never had with Rhaegar. She wants a man that stands beside her, not lords above.”

 _As I’ve found with you_. She doesn’t say the words nor does she need to.

Bonifer takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles.

“She spoke with Lord Eddard.”

“A Stark?” Rhaella startles, “She spoke with a Stark?”

Bonifer nods, “For quite some time.”

Rhaella frowns and turns away from him, fingers playing with the fabric of her dress. He allows her the moment to think, pouring a cup of wine for both of them and offering her the goblet. She takes it but doesn’t drink, tapping her finger against the rim.

“Where has Lady Ashara gone? She’s not returned to Elia, even after the death of the babe.”

“She’s traveled to Essos to become a governess.”

Rhaella chokes on her wine and turns to Bonifer.

“Lady Ashara Dayne has gone to Essos to teach some foreign lord’s child? With who as an escort, dare I ask.”

Bonifer smiles.

“Strangest thing,” he purrs in amusement and sips his wine. “It appears her escort was none but Benjen Stark, the youngest brother. My contact in Pentos says he’s joined some sellsword company of exiled northmen, Company of the Rose.”

Rhaella balks before clearing her throat, raises her chin, and presses her lips together.

“Any other surprises you’ve thus far neglected to mention?”

“Stark was knighted after an expedited period of squiring in Starfall. Also Ned Stark has recruited a smuggler knighted and given lands by Stannis Baratheon for services rendered during the war effort. He’s been named a leading trading partner with the north and moves goods between the North, the Stormlands, and the Free Cities.”

“Stranger take me,” mutters Rhaella, collapsing in a seat at the table. “That little tart, my son’s she-wolf, she’s not dead at all, is she?”

Bonifer sips his wine and watches her from across the room.

“And the babe?”

“I doubt Ser Arthur Dayne fell beneath her web after a mere few months and abandoned his country, his family, and his vows because a pretty girl batted her eyelashes.”

Rhaella curses and slams her goblet on the table, wine sloshing over the rim.

“What sort of twit raises a Targaryen prince as an exile in Essos?”

_It’s a terrible thing to be a Targaryen alone._

“The sort that sees a terrible future in her babe’s eyes,” replies Bonifer, silencing Rhaella’s outrage.

Her anger cools, some wrongs cannot be forgiven, and while Elia would have accepted the child into her family, baseborn or true, disgraced or not, her brothers would not have.

The door opens with a squeak of the hinges, and Daenery’s silver head pokes through. She calls Bonifer’s name and flies into his arms; he settles her on his hip and answers the questions she peppers him with while Rhaella drinks her wine and laughs at the absurdity and pens a letter to her good-daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhaella is not a huge character in this story, but I wanted to set up relationship between information flow, the Hundred, and Daenerys relationships with the people in her sphere. Dany won't play a major role until much later because I want to focus on the Starks, the Targaryens, and the Martells in the way they relate to each other, but I have every intention for her to be breaker of chains, mother of dragons, and the unburnt. It's a Jon-centric fic, but I don't believe in that 'chosen one' bs where one character is all the things. I do intend for Jon to have and hatch dragons, but I also intend for the siblings to be a unit that Daenerys isn't strictly a part of and should therefore be able to stand on her own with her family's support but not the same bond the siblings will have.
> 
> I wanted to explore Rhaella's very complicated life. I can't even imagine what it would be like to be married to a man who raped and tormented you who was also your brother. I'm trying to explore her complicated range of emotions. On the one hand, she loves her children even her troubled sons and had a life with Aerys where he was just family, on the other her that same man raped and tormented her. I can't imagine she could wholly hate Aerys any more than she could really love him, and that's a terrible place to be. On top of that, I feel like it would be hard living with your friend's daughter who your son has endangered and humiliated. She overstepped out of shame and guilt and a need to assist, but she's happier away from King's Landing as I imagine most people aside from Cersei and Littlefinger would be.
> 
> I learned about Bonifer Hasty in alperez's fic, The Dark Prince and the Golden Lionness (https://archiveofourown.org/works/22066684/chapters/52661689) and did a bunch of research and wanted to incorporate both their ill-fated innocent love, Bonifer Hasty's devotion, and the Hundred. So here he is. There are quite a few book character I'm pulling in from exposure in other fics and research and liking them even though the only things I know about them come from fanfiction and reading their histories online, but, you know, it's fun and we all like what we like whether it's rational or not.


	10. Benjen

**290AC south of Norvos**

The day little Alysanne Dayne comes squalling into the world starts like any other.

Benjen had, surprisingly, achieved a short leave from the Company of the Rose to visit with his wife and family. Or, well, the Company called Ashara Dayne his wife while he called her his cross to bear. More than once, her own travels at the pop-up schools she’d founded while she traveled down the Rhoyne as a healer left her crossing paths with Benjen. Always she announced her presence by shouting at him about any number of things from injuries sustained to the state of his clothes to the coin it cost to replace and repair said clothes, occasionally about the coin he owes her dear, sweet brother for giving him armor and arms on loan, often about his shabby state of being before forcing him down to tame his beard and mustache and trim his ever-growing locks.

When he’d asked why they thought her his wife, his captain had laughed and declared that she hated him and yet tended him nonetheless. _What is that if not a wife?_

Ashara had left the quaint farmhouse along the Noyne within hours of his arrival with a kiss to his cheek and Jon’s head promising to be back within a sennight, insistent on traveling all the way to Braavos for her promised reading class and herbs to help with Lyanna’s upcoming birth.

Benjen awakes on the very morning with a raven announcing Ashara’s arrival somewhere around nightfall as Jon fights his morning bowl of oats, whining without making a sound where he’s sat in Arthur’s lap, and Lyanna hisses as she pokes herself repeatedly while embroidering a blanket for the babe. All these years mending clothes and sails, Lyanna remains as unimpressive at embroidery as she ever was. She’s much better at whittling and gardening, dedicating space and time to assist Ashara in the herb garden they’d built upon moving to the outskirts of Norvos in the valley around the Noyne. She’s best at breeding horses, though, a surprising hobby that became a business the first time a bearded priest of Norvos was impressed by the spirited colt Arthur had ridden into the city and offered a great deal of money to purchase it from him.

Arthur had taken the coin and walked home.

Lyanna had looked at her beloved horses and became a name in Essos for breeding warhorses.

In only a few years, she’d managed to become a reputable dealer in horseflesh, breeding agile Dothraki horses with stronger, heavier breeds imported from Westeros by the magisters to the east. The result was hardy warhorses that were quick, maneuverable, and capable of enduring arduous campaigns. She sold to sealords and sellswords across Essos.

Benjen’s own steed was a fine-tempered, sure-footed filly from her first batch of foals. Ashara’s was a colt, sweet but finnicky, preferring Jon and Ashara and very rarely Arthur but never Lyanna and Benjen as though she smelled the wolf in their blood and avoided their kind. Arthur’s was a retired broodmare Lyanna purchased out of pity and got a single foal off of before Arthur claimed her with a cocky smile and utmost confidence in Lyanna’s agreement.

Jon, though, rode any horse, every horse.

Some days he spent hours sitting in the field along the river watching one horse in particular before clambering on its bare back and galloping through the field with a wild abandon and not a shred of fear. He did that with his cat too, the same cat that had followed them from the canal-side home in Braavos to their cottage outside Norvos like it knew exactly where to find them.

Arthur left after morning meal, ruffling Jon’s hair where he stood practicing his archery with the cat sitting at his feet, mulish expression on his face as he misses again. He corrects his form gently and reminds him not to hold so long. With the promise of a spar when he returns and a goodbye to Benjen, Arthur’s gone to the forge leaving Jon and Benjen alone with a very disgruntled and very pregnant Lyanna.

“Ashara tells me,” says Lyanna in greeting, “that some women like being pregnant.”

Benjen smirks at his sister while she tells Jon to raise his elbow higher, inhale as he draws and exhale upon release.

“Not you, I take it.”

“I am quite ready to see my feet again,” quips Lyanna.

“No one told you to have a baby.”

“That is technically not true. Mother did. Father did. Ned and Brandon did. The maester did. The Seven—” She trails of laughing when Benjen waves her away. She leans her head on his shoulder, clapping and whooping when Jon hits the center of the target. He smiles sweetly, and she hardens her resolve and instructs him to do so again. The boy is a natural swordsman, a joy to watch and a joy to teach and even surly, impatient Ser Arthur Dayne thinks so. His archery requires more practice, more technique, more instruction, but he devotes himself fully if with an air of reluctance and defeat. “Did you see the sketch Ned sent of his new one?”

Benjen smiles, “Is a year still new?”

“Well, we’ve only just learned of her, she’s new to us.” Benjen grunts, and Lyanna watches him from the corner of her eye. It’s unbelievable sometimes to see Lyanna this way, wild yet settled, bound yet contented. He’d thought for years she could have freedom or family, yet somehow on the plains of the Noyne River across the Narrow Sea from the only life she’s ever known, Lyanna can gossip about babes born and correct her son’s stance with a bow in a single breath. It’s more than Benjen had ever expected. “And you and Ashara?”

“Lya, don’t.”

“The Company thinks you’re married, and you’ve lain with her, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t!”

“Truly?” Lyanna asks with genuine surprise. He asks her why she’s been so certain, hesitant and uncertain he wants to know the answer. “She looks at you like you have and it was good enough to want again.”

Benjen’s cheeks burn.

“You adore her. And she wants you. What is the problem, dear brother?”

This is, perhaps, the last thing he ever wished to discuss with his sister yet he can’t deny the desire to tease out his hesitations. The men in the Company are vulgar to discuss his desire and reluctance to court Ashara Dayne with. His only other consistent company is Ashara’s elder brother unless he wants to wait until Davos’s next visit or take a trip to Braavos and seek advice from a Faceless Man, crazy Red Priestess, Asavvi, or Syrio Forel. Jaqen would ask what a woman wants and if a man’s willing. The Red Priestess would say passion is a gift from the Lord of Light. Asavvi would ask why on earth he didn’t want to bed Ashara Dayne. And Syrio Forel would just smile.

“Have you met her brother?” Benjen tries to joke, eyes on Jon as his form slips and a bed of sweat drips from his hairline and down his spine.

“No, can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure,” japes Lyanna with an eye roll. “Enough jokes, Ben.”

“Ned was in love her.”

“Ned married Catelyn Tully and seems quite happy by all accounts.”

“She had a child with Brandon.”

“If it doesn’t bother her, it shouldn’t bother you. He wasn’t going to marry her any more than he was going to marry Barbery Ryswell or the dozens of serving girls he dishonored.”

“She’s…” he struggles for a moment to find words to explain before giving up with a sigh. “Lady Ashara Dayne.”

“And you’re the brother of the Warden of the North.”

“I’m a sellsword."

Lyanna nods slowly and links her arm through his, cuddling against his side and patting his hand. “I’m King Rhaegar Targaryen's whore on the run in Essos and working as a horsebreeder and sometimes healer. Arthur is a disgraced Kingsguard who abandoned his king, broke his vows, and dishonored his kingdom. Ashara is the ruined lady of House Dayne who birthed a stillborn bastard daughter and teaches the poor and enslaved to read and heal from Braavos to Volantis. None of us are who we thought we’d be at this age. So if you’re hesitating to court her because you think yourself unworthy, believe Ashara deserves better, then stop. She’s capable enough to decide for herself and you do her a disservice by attempting to make the decision for her.”

Benjen’s heart lightens at his sister’s advice, nudging his shoulder against hers.

“When did you grow so wise?”

Lyanna sobers. “I’m not wise, Benjen. Most of us, we don’t get a choice, not really, not when every other option costs more than we’re willing to pay. You have a choice the pair of you, and I’d rather not see you waste it on what-ifs and self-doubt.” Benjen studies his sister as she leans back on her splayed palms, wind kicking up the ends of dark hair cut short once again and not yet evened out by Arthur’s steadier and far more patient hand. A large reason why Jon’ll not allow her close to his head with shears rather than any particular attachment to his curls. A sad smile spreads across her lips. “I have committed crimes I’ll never be able to atone for. My actions have ruined lives and taken husbands from wives and sons from mothers and shattered a peace however fragile. It’s an unfortunate truth that some lives blossom in the wake of destruction, improves in the chaos that follows. Like yours and even Ashara’s.”

“And yours,” whispers Benjen, but she flinches.

“I don’t deserve the happiness I’ve found, but it’s mine nonetheless and I wouldn’t trade it, wouldn’t do a thing different knowing I’d end up here. It’s selfish, and it’s shameful, and I’m sorry for what I’ve done but not for what I have.” Lyanna purses her lips and shrugs looking both ashamed and defiant. “But you’ve not ever made a choice that’s destroyed lives, not like me. And I want you to find happiness even borne in my mistakes because you deserve that, happiness you never would have found at the Wall or in the Kingsguard.”

Benjen presses a kiss to her temple, uncertain of what to tell her, what words could possibly soothe her soul. She likely doesn’t even think herself worthy of absolution with the same bold aversion possessed by her husband who’ll not ever discuss Westeros outside the faintest whispers from Ashara and Davos, and Aerys or Rhaegar never at all not since receiving news of Queen Elia’s improving health upon the diligent attentions of an exiled maester named Qyburn sent to her by an archmaester at the Citadel.

“You may never be a good person,” says Benjen, “but you’re a good sister.”

“You’re my favorite,” teases Lyanna, resting a hand against protruding belly, eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “Do me a favor?”

“Here it goes,” drawls Benjen.

“Take those three horses to the village a few miles south of here? A fellow from the Golden Company sent a raven that he wants them by tonight.” Lyanna inhales sharply and grimaces, fingers fisting and expression pinched from pain.

“I take it back,” says Benjen in agreement. He stands and helps Lyanna to her feet. She rests one hand on her back, the other on her stomach, brows drawn together and a strange expression on her face. “Lya, are you all right?”

“Fine,” says Lyanna after a moment, forcing a smile and waving him off. She turns to Jon and shouts, “Don’t hold so long!”

The boy drops back his head and sighs. “You sound just like papa!”

“Then you know I’m right.” Jon and Benjen both give her indulgent looks, and she huffs, pressing a kiss to Benjen’s cheek and shooing him away grumbling that she’s a better archer than the bloody Sword of the Morning anyway.

“Jon,” calls Benjen as she slips inside, “keep an eye on your mother.”

Jon frowns and glances worriedly at the house before nodding.

It takes the better part of an hour to reach the village and a better part of Benjen’s patience to tolerate Rolly Duckfield, the onetime squire to the Golden Company’s captain, Harry Strickland. Benjen smiles through Duck’s vulgar commentary and attempts to haggle down the price as though the Golden Company isn’t the most expensive swellswords anywhere at all. Lyanna likes him well enough, and Duck likes Jon, much to Arthur’s consternation and Lyanna’s everlasting amusement, but he can’t help but worry.

By prediction of Lyanna, Ashara, and the midwife Arthur and Benjen insisted they consult, his sister ought not be due for another fortnight. Jon had been born early, but the midwife’s unhelpful response had been the inordinate stress she suspected Lyanna had been under and Lyanna’s inadvisably young age that caused even Ashara to scoff and prompted a scathing lecture about appropriate ages for childbirthing and health of young mothers and welfare of children until Arthur cut her off with a sour smile and one-shouldered shrug that spoke more of his opinions towards society’s ability to change than disagreement about appropriate ages for women to birth children. Her sage advice had been that each pregnancy is different but considering Lyanna’s age, health, and lifestyle, she didn’t see a reason for the babe to come early a second time.

Benjen worries regardless.

Unusually observant, Duck catches on after a subtle question about ‘the little lad’s mother’ and Benjen’s vague answer about her being alone with Jon and too pregnant to go anywhere at all. With a request to give her his best, Duck dismisses him without another word of payment and with a bag of coin considerably heavier than it ought to be.

He doesn’t worry about it.

It doesn’t take long to get back, but it feels like a lifetime even riding at a full gallop along the banks of the Noyne.

A pit of deep, dark certainty that something has gone very wrong settles at the bottom of his stomach the closer he grows to the cottage. He sees the horses the first, herds of them grazing peacefully along the banks while the two dogs that had adopted them rather than the other way around sit alert along the perimeter, ears pricked forward and tails wagging with anxiety rather than joy. The look in their eyes is a little too human as they watch him pass onto the property without provocation.

The door to the cottage is thrown open, a pile of bloodied flesh thrown out the door and being picked upon by vultures while the cat watches from the windowsill in aggravation. His heart pounds with fear before the squalling of an infant reaches his ears, and Benjen hurries inside the cottage to find Lyanna hale and hearty, propped up on bed with Jon sitting cross-legged at her side and a screaming infant swaddled in a purple blanket embroidered with silver stars and direwolves and cradled in his arms.

Lyanna will tell them all later that she came quick and untroubled unlike Jon, she’d not labored for hours and lost too much blood. Her water had broken and a few hours later Jon, scared but determined, had caught his sister, cleaned her of blood, swaddled her in blankets, and presented her to Lyanna, shaking with fear and relief. Jon had disposed of the afterbirth—far too close to the house for Ashara or Benjen’s liking though Arthur and Lyanna had shushed them both, and helped his mother and sister to a chair while he stripped the bedding and redressed her bed in spar sheets.

Ashara will race in not long after with Melisandre on her heels having seen a vision in the fire whispered in her ear. Arthur at dusk, wandering home from the forge like it’s an ordinary day and stunned to find it isn’t ordinary at all. Davos the next week with well wishes and a significant number of people from the Golden Company that turns into a full-scale party when members of the Company of the Rose appear to offer congratulations and camp outside. And in the midst of joyous chaos, Benjen will take Ashara’s hand and ask permission to court her properly. She might even say yes.

For now, though, Lyanna looks up at him with a tired smile and holds out her hand and says: “Come meet your niece, Ben.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the idea for Jon and Lyanna to be alone to have to muddle through childbirth together from leave our memories behind by piecesofgold (https://archiveofourown.org/works/16617020), and I just loved it for reason I don't entirely understand. Jon's a lot younger in this story than in that fic, but considering that he's spent the last several years growing up on a farm breeding horses and uncle the tutelage of two trained healers, they could figure it out if they had to. And, yes, Jon is a warg and showing early signs. He won't be as powerful as Bran, but I consider warging akin to a muscle, some people like Bran have natural talent and some people can get a little more powerful with practice. That's Jon. In Game of Thrones he didn't spend near as much time around animals as he does here so he's learned he can form bonds and is intentionally trying to warg into them. I also loved the idea of Lyanna owning a business especially around horses since everyone seemed to talk about what a great rider she was.
> 
> A lot like with Lyanna and Arthur, I figured Benjen's relationship with Ashara while close would also be fraught with insecurities. He doesn't have a complicated past with her, but his family does. Lyanna publicly humiliated her closest friend. One brother was in love with her, the other got her knocked up when he was betrothed, and she lost his brother's child. That's a lot for both of them no matter what else they've gone through together, but I think it's something he would be more likely to internalize. She's dealt with those hurts been done to her and those close to her, but Benjen's the one whose family did the hurting. He's wary of courting her with all that baggage on top of the fact that he's the third son of the late Warden of the North; he'll likely never own lands or have his own keep, and she's the firstborn daughter to the lord of Starfall. And while I did a lot of research trying to figure out the dynamic of the Dayne family, I can't even find a name for Arthur's elder brother or dates when the older brother or their parents died so I'm just going to have his father having died in the war and his elder brother as lord of Starfall, alive and well.
> 
> The more I read this back, the more I feel like I make mention of what happened in Westeros a lot, but I stand by it regardless. We're all products of our past, and they're all here because of decisions Lyanna and Rhaegar and even Arthur made, not together but that affect them and the people around them nonetheless. She feels like she has this good life at the cost of other people, which, regardless of the circumstances, is true. It's not something she thinks about constantly, but in conversations about her happiness and even Benjen's, the cost of that happiness is going to come up. Lives were destroyed, but in the end, they're all living very different but very happy and free lives, which is tinged with guilt and apology but not necessarily regret. War's such an interesting thing. It's destructive and damaging, but it's almost always followed by a period of renaissance and prosperity, or it was historically, not so much in modern times. It's an interesting thing to consider in the context of GoT. Lyanna's dislike of pregnancy was actually inspired by Maddie from the show Sister Wives. She talked about not being a 'magical pregnancy unicorn' and I was so amused. Some woman just don't like being pregnant, and I think that's okay and should be acknowledged.
> 
> I chose the name Alysanne because Lyarra was too close to Lyanna and it would have screwed me up, primarily, but also because it's a southern name that has been used in the north and House Stark historically. I read while looking for names that the Daynes may not be of Old Valyrian descent despite their purple eyes (and occasionally silver hair), but that really stretches the bounds of my disbelief. They may not be anywhere near as directly descended from Valyrian ancestors as the Targaryens, but a tendency for purple eyes and silver hair and the statement that it doesn't necessarily equate to Valyrian heritage is so outlandish to me that I'm just going to straight up ignore that. It's not relevant to this story in any way, but I'm still just so dumbfounded.


	11. Oberyn

**291AC Volantis**

This list of things Oberyn Martell would prefer to wandering the streets of Volantis searching for his wayward niece and her boyish companion is long indeed. Somewhere in the city, Ellaria and his daughters are having a far better time than him, drinking wine and enjoying better company than pushy merchants, haggard slaves, and an absurd number of Red Priests and Priestesses like they knew he was coming and made a conscience effort to arrive in large enough number to annoy him. That Ilyrio Mopatis, too, is somewhere in this city inviting Oberyn to banquets with Dothraki horselords and silver-haired Blackfyres that remind him far too much of his darling sister’s bastard of a husband is almost more than even he can bear…but he’ll do his best.

He ought to have expected trouble with these girls, worse than his daughters they are.

Rhaenys and Arianne and Brienne of Tarth.

The latter is the least trouble, always making pained faces and muttering about honor and duty and safety while allowing Rhaenys and Arianne drag her into trouble. She has more difficulty with the Sand Snakes, prickly and defensive when they speak to her, but this much Oberyn understands, though he wishes they didn’t. They’re mean without intention, rude without thought, and insulting without apology. They’re Dornish, his Sand Snakes, like Rhaenys and like Arianne, confident in themselves and unapologetic about being both feminine and deadly.

Brienne of Tarth isn’t like them. She has a boyish figure to match her boyish hobbies and boyish haircut, too tall and too stocky and too shapeless even at the mere age of one and ten to be distinctly feminine. She’s uncomfortable in her figure yet confident in her body, and Oberyn finds himself more than a little fond of the girl as much because of her awkward stoicism as in spite of it. He’s also surprisingly fond of her father, Lord Selwyn, who's long ceased trying to dress his daughter in fine gowns and pretty jewels and focused on allowing her strong armor and a good master-at-arms instead.

She needs more fluidity to her movements, Oberyn thinks, but Brienne of Tarth is as dangerous with a sword as his daughters and nieces are with spears.

The girls all together is trouble all its own, but when their adventures begin with Rhaegar and Elia’s polite yet scathing arguments, the trouble abounds like the gods are laughing, though whether at him or Rhaegar, Oberyn may never know.

The trouble began when Rhaegar managed to pry Daenerys out of his mother’s hands for an indeterminate amount of time citing precedents and laws offered by Jon Connington and negated sternly by Stannis Baratheon. He softened the blow by informing Queen Rhaella that Myrcella Baratheon, Roslyn Frey, and Margaery Tyrell would be in attendance as well.

In passing to Connington, Rhaegar had dared mention bringing the three heads of his dragon today, and Elia had announced Rhaenys would be leaving…and Aegon too, their trips planned well in advance, Aegon to Horn Hill with Samwell Tarly and Rhaenys, invited along on Oberyn’s next trip to Volantis. An educational trip with her cousins and closest companion, the Lady Brienne.

Connington had blustered.

Oberyn had smiled.

Rhaegar had glared, smiled, and asked: “Might you repeat yourself, Elia?”

Unflinchingly, she had indeed repeated herself without a single misstep or blink.

Elia had brushed off his declaration of ‘absolutely not’ and weathered each challenge to her sudden change in her children’s plans without even a single misstep. 

Why was he not informed of these plans? He’d only just returned from a sojourn at the Citadel and trip to Lys to meet with shadowbinders from Asshai and asked in no uncertain terms not to be disturbed for trivial matters. 

Why could they not be altered? Oberyn’s trip coincides with a diplomatic matter upon Doran’s request for Dorne in search of a potential bride from Quentyn, and it wouldn’t do to insult Randyll Tarly by breaking plans. 

Was Rhaenys not to spend so much time with her Dornish relatives? But the trip is not merely for pleasure but to understand the intricacies of diplomacy and trading and perhaps have a chance to meet Red Priests. 

Would it not be better for Aegon and Daenerys to spend time together if they were to be married? Too much time together and it may be difficult to alter familial feelings for romantic ones to their deteriment.

At the end of it all, Connington had been quivering with rage, and Rhaegar outright glaring at Elia. Hands on the table, Rhaegar had risen slowly and stared down his nose at her and said coldly: “I forbid it. My children will be here to know their aunt. Aegon will attend his lessons with Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime. Rhaenys will remain in the care of the septa. And you will do as you’re told.”

Oberyn had never wanted to wring his neck more than in that moment, not when he’d crown the Stark girl Queen of Love and Beauty, not when Rhaegar had run away with her, not when he’d abandoned Elia to Aerys’ mercy in King’s Landing, not ever.

Elia had smiled and risen smoothly, hands folded in front of her and pleasant smile on her lips.

“And who are you to forbid me?”

“I am your king.”

“Is that all?”

The question sounded offhanded, even dismissive, but something about it left Rhaegar paling. He’d pressed his lips together and stared at her with horror while Jon Connington looked between the two of them, Elia calm and Rhaegar panicked, as confused as Oberyn. In the end, Elia had gotten her way, and it had been Rhaegar who’d stalked from the room in fury. She’d poured herself a glass of wine and stared outside at the gentle waves of Blackwater Bay crashing against the shore. When Oberyn had asked what that was all about, Elia had smiled and responded with a question that chilled and puzzled him in equal measure.

_Did you know that when a marriage is annulled for reasons other than it being unconsummated, the status of children born of that union must be explicitly stated in the documents?_

Oberyn took his hellion nieces and their polite companion and lost them somewhere in the streets of Volantis when they’d slipped from the manse to do…whatever young girls do in foreign cities without supervision when they’re not Sand Snakes.

His search takes him to the banks of the Rhoyne, children splashing in the cool waters on such a hot day, his eyes scanning for Brienne’s short blonde locks rather than his nieces’ brown hair that would blend right in.

“Aly, no!”

His head turns at the sound and sight, a boy no older than eight years pushing through the crowds to scoop up a tow-headed little girl with Dornish coloring and big gray eyes, hair somewhere between blonde and her brother’s dark brown. It’s Oberyn she smiles up at, gap-toothed and unafraid.

“Hi!”

“Hello, little girl,” says Oberyn, instantly charmed.

“Aly,” sighs her brother, “what did mama and papa say about talking to strangers?”

The girl frowns and shakes her head, covering her ears.

“Don’t talk to strangers.”

“You!” She points at her brother angrily, nearly poking him in the eye.

“No,” he says patiently, catching her hand, “I was talking to Talisa. She’s not a stranger. She’s our friend.”

“Friend,” agrees Aly, pointing at Oberyn.

“No, Aly.”

“Do you have a name?” Oberyn asks the boy.

“I don’t talk to strangers,” he says, eyes on his sister.

“I’m not a stranger. I’m a friend, as the girl says,” teases Oberyn.

“Yes!” Aly declares, waving her arms, “Up?”

“No,” says the boy growing frustrated.

Aly, too, is no less amused by her brother, pouting her bottom lip and patting his cheek with a sly smile as she calls him, “Jon.”

“Jon?”

“No.”

“Aly!” The girl introduces herself cheerfully.

“And I’m Prince Oberyn Martell.” The boy, Jon, gives him a dubious look while Aly claps her hands. “Now we’ve been introduced, and we’re no longer strangers. Have you, by chance, seen a very large, very broad blonde girl with very short hair in company of two girls that look like me but, I suppose, slightly prettier?”

Aly gasps and tilts back her head on Jon’s shoulder, clapping her hands together: “Ari and Rainy and Brie.” She looks to Jon for reassurance, and he smiles, nodding. She points her arm back the way they’d come. “Talisa!”

“They’re digging for snakes.”

“Snakes?” Oberyn asks the boy with confusion, following when he sets down his sister, takes her hand, and leads her back the way they’d come.

“My aunt’s a healer, she says they’re good for medicine. My uncle’s a merchant, he says their skin’s good for trading. My friend is a Faceless Men, he says they’re poison’s good for quick assassinations.”

“You keep interesting company,” mutters Oberyn.

“Are you really a prince? I don’t know any princes, but I know a Braavosi sealord. And the captain of the Golden Company. And a Red Priestess. And a famous Dothraki courtesan, though mama tells me I shouldn’t call Auntie Asavvi that but she says it’s fine, and a Faceless Man, but papa says I shouldn’t tell people that or they’ll get the wrong idea. What idea, though? Jaqen’s annoying but he’s really very helpful…when he’s not killing people for money. But that’s what uncle Ben says.”

“Do you usually talk this much?”

Jon stops and looks up at him with shrewd eyes and says, “But aren’t we friends?” Before Oberyn can respond to that jab, his sister waves her arm with a squeal of excitement revealing the very three girls Oberyn had been scouring the city for half of the day. So much time wasted when all he had to do was meet a toddler and snippy elder brother.

“Poisonous snakes?” The three girls freeze, covering in mud and dresses hiked up to reveal their legs. The olive-skinned Volantene girl directing the charge is most certainly a noblewoman judging by her dress and decidedly unconcerned about appearances, as covered in mud as his charges while the slave assigned to babysit her stands pristine and bemused off to the side. Oberyn claps his hands together and smirks. “My lovely girls, why would you hunt for poisonous snakes without the Red Viper of Dorne, hmm? What would you do if you found some?”

“Bash them over the head with a stick,” says little Talisa while Jon and Aly nod sagely. Brienne looks shocked, Arianne and Rhaenys a little green. Talisa puts her hands on her hips and hooks a fingers around the stick stuck in her waist sash. “Better to take them alive, you know. Most healers want them fresh. Bash them over the head and they’re dazed for hours.”

A shrill whistle draws Jon and Aly’s attention to a man in a worn but well-made tunic, beard graying and smile on his face. His gaze moves first to the girls, three waving sheepishly while covered in mud and the Volantene brandishing a dazed poisonous snake with a triumphant smile, then Oberyn with suspicion that makes him bristle, then the two kids he’d come to find, the cleanest of the bunch and somehow the guiltiest.

“I would find you two here.” Jon flushed crimson while Aly beamed and waved her dirty hands at the man with a childish mixture of disgust and delight. “Come along, then, your father’s been looking for you and your aunt brought enough sweets to feed every man, woman, and child from Volantis to Selhorys.” Aly and Jon exchange wide-eyed looks of wonder. Jon offers the girls respectful bows like a noble lord of Westeros while the girls giggle and accept Aly’s hugs. Jon exchanges a bucket of Talisa’s snakes for a couple Volantene honors the merchant gives her with nod of acknowledgement, and then they’re gone, racing down the shore while their merchant—friend? grandfather?—trails behind.

“Who was that boy?” Oberyn demands of the girls.

Three of them stare at him while little Talisa ignores him submerging herself in the waters of the Rhoyne.

“Jon,” says Rhaenys, an unequivocal ‘duh’ to her voice that makes Oberyn want to throw her into the river.

“No family name?”

Rhaenys sighs and puts her hands on her hips while Arianne giggles and drapes herself over Brienne’s shoulder to watch their exchange with glimmering eyes.

“Does his family name matter? Am I expected to know him? He talks like Aegon and Renly and Samwell, but he’s from Braavos and speaks bastardized Valyrian like a native. He’s met First Swords and sealords and pirates from the Basilisk Isles and Unsullied from Astapor and Faceless Men and elephants from the Golden Company. I didn’t ask for his family name, uncle, why should I?”

It’s a lecture if he’s ever heard one that reminds him of his beloved sister’s more annoying qualities. Little Rhaenys is Elia reincarnated some days, only healthier than she had been in youth, for which House Martell and Elia herself is most grateful, though she’s been doing much better beneath the care of Qyburn, creepy though Oberyn finds him.

Still, Jon is Westerosi, skin bronzed from hours in the sunlight can’t hide his naturally pale complexion. He has the coloring of a northerner, from what little Oberyn’s seen of them, but his sister seems more Dornish in appearance aside from the same slate gray eyes as her elder brother. What sort of Westerosi couple raises their child in Essos and introduces them to all sorts of dangerous characters? Merchants, perhaps, especially if the wife has died, but Oberyn finds young Jon’s manners and way of speaking too polished for even merchants, which rule out pirates and smugglers. A child from the Company of the Rose, perhaps, more than a few exiled Westerosi from north of the Neck found themselves with the Company or the Golden Company, perhaps, but not the roughshod Second Sons, too vulgar and too eclectic.

Though curiosity remains, he puts young Jon and Aly from his mind to attend the girls.

It’s a trial to wrangle them back to the manse, this time in company of Talisa Maegyr—this one offering her impressive family name—even with the help of the slave escorting the Volantene girl. They stop to ooh and aah over every merchant stall and salivate over the street being being hocked near the market. Instead of a bath, Ellaria takes a single look at them and declares them unfit to even step foot inside and laughs while dumping pots of cold water over their heads, avoiding their dripping clothes and grabby hands when Arianne and Rhaenys offer hugs so Ellaria, too, can cool down from the intense heat while Talisa crouches beside Brienne and admires the Sand Snakes’ collection of Dornish spears.

They manage dinner and send off Talisa when a litter comes to collect her on her father’s orders and get the girls off the bed before Ellaria draws him into hers with whispered promises and sweet kisses.

The next time Oberyn even thinks of Jon and Aly is days later while doing business on the wharf with Nymeria and Obara in tow. Tyene flirts further away, uninterested in business when she could be plying a dark-skinned boy not much older than herself with an earring in his ear and the definite look of a pirate. Either way, it’s not Tyene who attracts Oberyn’s notice but the familiar, tow-headed little girl who toddles up to the pirate and takes his hand, tugging him away without sparing Tyene even a glance.

Aly with no family name squeals when the pirate tosses her into the air and catches her securely in his arms only to be swatted by a fair-skinned, dark-haired woman whose greeted with a delighted shout of ‘Auntie!’ The girl is passed into her aunt’s arms while the young pirate moves forward to help load cargo on a Volantene ship designed for river travel. The crowd clears just enough for Oberyn to see the gray-haired man who’d taken Jon and Aly days ago speaking with a man of Dornish coloring and silver curls, Jon perched on his shoulders. He’s too far to make out his features clearly, but Oberyn’s loathe to believe there’s two men in the world of that coloring, that stature, that physique. When the black haired woman arrives and passes the girl into his arms, Oberyn’s reminded of another childhood ghost, and when he watches young Jon lean down to smack a playful kiss to his baby sister's lips while she laughs, Oberyn’s reminded of where he’s seen those big gray eyes before.

A cold feeling races through his veins as he turns away not noticing the way a cat watches him with humanoid intensity from a post nearby, the way the boy’s eyes aren’t gray but stark white where he buries his face in his father’s silver curls. He’ll need to write his sister; she must know immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no canon source as far as I'm aware for Talisa's family but considering her family name, I've made her the granddaughter of one of the triarch's of Volantis from the books, Malaquo Maegyr. She also won't be a huge figure in this series, but I'm leaving my options open for future pairings between the younger generation. I liked her character in the show; I didn't like that Robb had the balls to break his betrothal with the Freys to marry for love while also leaving his siblings in the viper's nest of King's Landing. Priorities. I'll just go ahead and say now Jonerys is out, Rhaenys/Jon is out, Rhaenys/Aegon is out. I'm making a conscious move away from incest in this story, and Aegon, in particular, and Elia to a lesser extent are not at all on board with the Targaryen incestuous tendencies because they're smart and realize that never ends well for anyone and in the long term weakens the bloodline more than it strengthens blood purity.
> 
> I did a lot of research into historical annulments while writing this. In modern day terms, children are not affected by the annulment in the slightest. Historically, though, it depends. Most people chose not to de-legitimize there children, though they were occasionally removed from the line of succession. It literally depends, though, it had to be decided upon and dictated in the annulment decrees and even then were product to change so Rhaegar's in an interesting place. He coerced Elia into remaining in King's Landing as his queen. He can't remarry her because she a) wouldn't go back and b) would prove to the kingdom they'd had an annulment. He also can't amend his children's status because it would bring attention to the annulment. He's dependent right now on Elia's willingness to contribute to this charade. If she decides to leave, the kingdom's stable enough to survive but she could contest him and take the kids if she so chose leaving him at the mercy of the Lannisters and desperate for an heir.
> 
> Oberyn's knowledge of this won't come to a head for several chapters. I characterized him more as protective of his family than ambitious as Doran so he'll follow Elia's lead until he feels Jon is a threat.
> 
> As for updating, I did once a day for a while, but I'm getting ready to take a summer job in a different state so even though I'm very ahead in writing this story, I'm going to try for three times a week preferably Monday, Wednesdays, and Friday so that everyone knows what to expect.


	12. Lyanna

It’s not often Lyanna and Arthur argue, she may be stubborn and headstrong but he’s levelheaded and even-tempered more often than not. After the first few years of figuring out how to live with each other before they’d become lovers rather than partners-in-crime, there had been precious little to fight about. 

Not money, they both made a living and then some; a portion of their money as well as Benjen and Ashara’s goes to household expenses and food, another portion set aside for the children, and the rest pooled together for personal expenses. 

Not household chores, they divided work fairly evenly and worked to instill appreciation in their children encouraging the kids to help with age-appropriate chores as well; Aly loved to feed the horses and help cook while Jon picked up around the house with fastidiousness learned from Arthur and often went to the forge with Arthur. 

Not Lyanna’s antics, she in no way thought marriage and children mellowed her the way her father and brothers had insisted it would but her restless energy had been well-channeled. She ran a profitable business where she bred expensive horses as headstrong and spirited as herself. She traveled frequently and often for Arthur’s business, for hers, with Davos and sometimes to assist Ashara with her free healing clinics and her schools. Arthur trained her and Ashara with the same diligence as Jon and Benjen and offered her enough leeway to be herself in addition to a wife and mother. If men could do it, there was no reason women couldn’t either; she’d always believed that but time had proven her suspicions true.

She couldn’t help but argue about this despite being in front of a wide-eyed Ashara stitching Benjen’s latest injury with rough hands and no mercy. Jon, at least, had seen Lyanna’s face change and dragged his sister outside to play in the pasture with dogs.

“Say that again, I’m certain I must have misheard.”

“I want Jon to squire with Harry Strickland.” He remains firm, unapologetic and unsympathetic to her worries. Lyanna loves Arthur, trusts him absolutely, and has been given no reason to doubt in his decisions and recommendations when it comes to the reading of their children. She hadn’t panicked when he told her Jon and Aly had met Rhaenys and Arianne Martell in Volantis, that he and Davos were certain Prince Oberyn had recognized them because Jon had told them so, but this panic isn’t rational, it’s instantaneous and emotional and reckless. “He’s a natural, Lya; he’s ready. He needs to see real battle and be around real warriors not just the four of us and the forge. He needs to learn to think strategically and fight in formation. Faceless Men and Dothraki screamers can’t teach him that.”

“Why don’t we just send Oberyn a letter that yet another Blackfyre is preparing to wrest the throne from their Prince Aegon!” Lyanna shouts, shrill and close to hyperventilation while Benjen stops hissing from Ashara’s tending and gapes at her. Arthur thinks she’s being dramatic, can see it in his face though he dares not voice his thoughts aloud. She wants to make her herself stop talking, close her mouth and calm her thoughts and think rationally, but she can’t, stuck in this animalistic panic like she’s been cornered by one of the people she trusts most in the world. “I don’t...I can’t...why not the Company of the Rose? Explain this to me. I’m trying, I swear I am.”

“The Golden Company is the best, and Jon knows them. And Strickland made the offer along with one for me so Jon wouldn’t be alone.”

“You want to be a sellsword?” Lyanna asks, curious rather than chiding. In Westeros it would be a disgraceful thing, a swordsman and knight of his caliber and birth joining any company of sell swords, even the Golden Company. With their eclectic group of friends, Benjen and Ashara’s newfound lifestyle preference of being a childless married couple, and their own questionable lifestyle choices, even if she cared, Lyanna would have no room to say a word against it. She’s just surprised at his sudden switch from peaceful blacksmith with a deadly reputation to sellsword.

“They need a smith. Apparently, theirs got disemboweled by a Dothraki bloodrider and his apprentice isn’t skilled enough to take over.”

“You don’t think it’s dangerous?” Lyanna whispers, not worried over the implicit dangerous of squiring to the captain of a sellsword company so much as the implications should and when word got back to Oberyn Martell. They worked hard to ensure Jon’s survival, and she was afraid to lose him now to something like this.

“I think it’s an incredible opportunity,” admits Arthur, shrugging. “They need healers and horses as much as a smith and a squire. We’ll be sailing back to Westeros in a few years’ time. I need him to be ready and able to defend himself from whatever will undoubtedly find him there. And while he’s learning we’ll get to see more of Essos than we would have otherwise, as a family. You, me, Jon and Aly and Ashara, Benjen if he’s interested.”

Lyanna worries her bottom lip and tries to fight the increasing wave of mindless panic still coursing through her veins. She understands, logically, what Arthur’s saying, but she’s spooked by Oberyn’s knowledge. Ashara had asked if she wanted to know what Elia said about it in her most recent letter, but Lyanna waved her away, not wanting to take away her privacy with the same certainty that she didn’t really want to know if Elia Martell, the woman Lyanna had helped publicly disgrace and utterly humiliate, thought her son a threat and problem to be removed. Ashara and Lyanna had settled in a tentative friendship borne of becoming family, but Ashara would forever be Queen Elia’s best friend and closest confidante.

Arthur takes her hands and presses a kiss to her knuckles. Their gazes catch and hold, and she releases a shaky breath, waiting.

“I would die before I let anyone hurt you and the kids, even Oberyn, you know that.” Lyanna presses her lips together, tears stinging her eyes that shame her. It’s a display of weakness she abhors but can’t manage to subdue nonetheless. She wonders if she’s ever be able to panic over the possibility of Jon being ruthlessly eliminated by the absurd number of people with motive to kill her little boy, wonders how she’ll cope having him in Westeros, so close to danger on a daily basis. “I can’t promise this won’t be a risk longterm, but there’s no immediate danger. And if someone comes after him, he’ll have a place with the Golden Company. They’ll take him back and Aly too, and not even Oberyn could reach Jon in the Golden Company. This will be good for Jon,” promises Arthur, “for all of us.”

Lyanna forces herself to relax and slips into Arthur’s arms, trembling and ashamed of her instinctive fear.

“And what am I to do with the horses?”

Arthur smiles a charming if slightly cocky grin and shrugs one shoulder.

“Sell them to the Golden Company.”

“He doesn’t get a discount if he buys them in bulk,” warns Lyanna.

“Never.”

“And what will you do with the forge?”

“Myrgo’s made enough coin and built enough of a reputation to purchase it.”

Hands at Arthur’s waist, Lyanna tilts her head and crooks an eyebrow as she smiles up at him.

“For how much?”

Arthur shrugs again with a sheepish smile, but Lyanna merely rolls her eyes and rises to her toes to press a kiss to his lips. It’s not her business, not really. Lyanna may be a ruthless businesswoman, but Arthur’s just the opposite, generous and compassionate with such frequency Lyanna’s convinced its born largely of guilt towards his time as a Kingsguard for Aerys and the multitude of abuses and corruption he’d witnessed but allowed to continue. Myrgo had been apprenticed at the forge since they moved to Norvos a years earlier. He’d been an orphaned thief that had taken to playing games that kept Jon entertained the months the forge had been being setup until Jon had dragged him to Arthur and said he needed a job. Now, Myrgo’s married with a child on the way, a steady job and good reputation.

“The Golden Company?” Benjen asks, huffing, while Arthur smirks. “You’re lucky I haven’t renewed my contract yet.”

Ashara smacks his arm and points a finger at him, “ _You’re_ lucky that you’ll be around daily to see my beautiful visage and receive my attentions over your frequent and numerous injuries.”

“Is that not what I said, wife?” Benjen asks with a charming smile.

“No,” purrs Ashara, yanking the needle through the edges of Benjen’s gaping wound, “but I’m sure it’s what you meant, husband.”

Jon’s head peeks around the doorway, Aly’s below him.

“Can we come back in now?”

Lyanna laughs and nods.

It took less than a fortnight to wrap up their lives in Norvos, including a brief side trip to Braavos to tell Syrio, Asavvi, and Jaqen about their newest venture. They sent a raven to a contact in Volantis for Davos and negotiated an incredible price for with the Golden Company for Lyanna’s horses after threatening to sell them in piecemeal to the Second Sons, Stormcrows, and Company of the Rose making up for the loss Arthur sold his forge at. It saddened her to ride away from the only home her daughter had ever known, but she wanted her daughter to be unlike her and Ashara and most highborn women. She wanted her to see the world outside the four walls where she’d been born, especially before Lyanna dragged her back to Westeros where the world would do its best to conform her lovely daughter and sweet son to the destructive ideals of what men and women ought to be.

They met up with Rolly Duckfield in the Darkwash on the road to Qohor and escorted them the rest of the way, picking spirited fights with Benjen, flirting shamelessly with Ashara, and holding Aly in the saddle in front of him letting the little girl take the reins. The Golden Company was camped in the forest to the southeast outside the city walls, and Jon was reintroduced to Harry Strickland, this time as his squire, and the rest of the company in that silent, contemplative way of his. Arthur was introduced to the apprentice smith of less than a year, a Westerosi boy not much older than Jon with a startling resemblance to Robert Baratheon; rumor claimed Tobho Mott had sent him across the Narrow Sea to apprentice beneath the last man rumored to know how to make not just rework Valyrian steel. Whether or not this was true remained a mystery, and Gendry Storm offered no opinion either way. While Benjen was dragged away for his own introductions, Ashara and Lyanna were introduced to the curt head healer until a man named Black Balaq, the commander of the company’s archers, arrived to steal Lyanna and see her vaunted skill with a bow.

Her biggest fear had been how Alysanne would adjust to life in an encampment when her childhood had been so steady, so tranquil. She needn’t have worried. The men loved Aly like she’d been born one of them. She wandered around camp without fear and learned her letters beside Gendry in the forge from Lyanna or Ashara, groomed and fed horses with their horsemaster. She pet elephants and played drums and learned to draw in the sort of uncoordinated scramble of childlike hands. She sat beside the paymaster to learn her sums and learned languages from natives and was taught history of Essos and Westeros by people who’d lived it.

If Alysanne fit in well, Jon excelled in their roughshod company.

With new sparring partners, Jon improved markedly, though he only ever acknowledged advice when Arthur approved it. He learned mounted combat and melee fighting and how to fight with two swords and manage a shield. Gendry taught him to swing a war hammer and the Calvary taught him to throw spears and an exiled Dothraki taught him to wield an arakh. He played with Yi Ti explosives and Westerosi wildfire, learned to read a map and fight in formation and lead a charge. The spymaster taught him to manage information and Harry how to evaluate warships for naval assaults. Cyvasse games with Arthur and Benjen took on new meaning to help him improve tactics and Ashara taught him diplomacy under Harry’s patient eye. He met with bankers from the Iron Bank and enemy commanders on the eve of battle and helped prepare the bodies of the dead for burial when the battles finished. She was told he had a great head for tactics and a better one for leadership, but he had a tendency for recklessness, to react when he was corner instead of think and plan that Arthur and Harry were working to break him of. He was endearing to enemies and earnest, but too humble and a touch too self-sacrificial according to Harry, though Arthur seemed ambivalent.

Lyanna rotated through positions, some days helping Ashara tend the wounded, some days in formation with the archers, and some days helping the horse master with their mounts. She preferred never knowing where she would end up at the start of the day and found she rather enjoyed the unpredictability of life in the encampment. Arthur taught her to mend weapons, the spymaster taught her how to uncover secrets, the horsemaster taught her how to ride like the Dothraki. The first time she rode an elephant with Alysanne cradled in her arms, she cried from the sheer joy while Ashara stood on the one beside with not even a tremor and squealed with delight while Jon shaded his eyes and watched her with tranquil amusement.

They stayed a Qohor over a month, bolstering the city guard and prepping for a suspected raid from the Dothraki that the city could not afford to pay off with their usual amount of tribute. The Golden Company owed them a favor so they’d agreed to the discounted rate in exchange for rations. From there, they’d ridden to Mantarys, a particularly rotten city, to guard the Demon Road stretching between Mantarys and Volantis during the transportation of a particularly expensive caravan of trades and battled off bandits, pirates, and even the Stormcrows who’d been hired to steal the cargo. They’d stopped over in Tolos for several weeks before continuing onto Meeren, engaging a three month-long battle on Khyzai Pass with the Dothraki. 

They fought the Unsullied of Astapor over an issue of slaver traders on behalf of New Ghis that sent Arthur in a long-winded rant about the nature of slavery while Ashara countered about the difference between slaves and smallfolk being only a matter of coin until Benjen and Lyanna separated them. When calmer heads prevailed, they’d taken Jon and Alysanne on a trip to the slave market in Yunkai which ended in shouting and tears, before having a family discussion on the nature of slavery and whether or not they wanted to continue participating in jobs that supported the institution. Harry Strickland called them ideological fools and told them to meet up in Volon Therys where they fought a months long campaign against the Dothraki and pushed them back into the Dothraki Sea before mounting an attack in Vaes Dothrak over a number of nobles abducted from the city.

In Vaes Dothrak, Benjen held Jon down so Arthur could shave off his hair, infected as it was with head lice. Alysanne submitted to her fate more easily, full lip pout but otherwise without a fight. Harry and Duck laughed and warned Jon to keep a hat on his head, else his pretty porcelain skin would burn red beneath the burning sun as they crossed the Red Waste for Qarth. With his head shaved, Jon’s parentage was undeniable to anyone who’d met the man. That delicate bone structure, that almost androgynous beauty, is entirely Old Valyrian and similar enough to Rhaegar to give even Arthur pause.

They don’t discuss it, though Harry exchanges a long look with some of the exiled Westerosi sergeants.

The warlocks of Qarth take far too much interest in Jon, so Arthur keeps him close and busy along with Alysanne while Harry Strickland pulls her aside.

“Lady Lyanna Stark,” he drawls while Lyanna stiffens. Watkyn, his cupbearer and soon-to-be squire, enters the room in possession of a long rectangular box that he sets on the table between them. “We all thought you’d died.”

“That was very much the point, Harry.”

“Yes, yes,” waves away Harry dismissively, “I see now why you needed to, though it must’ve been quite a coup to entice Ser Arthur Dayne away from his closest friend and Dornish queen.” Lyanna raises her chin and rolls her eyes, hands fisted at her side and lips pursed. He chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m in no position to judge. I offer you a gift, or, well, your son. This was passed down from company commander to company commander since Aegor Rivers died in 241. He left explicit instructions for it to be given for the next person of Targaryen blood to become a member of the Golden Company.”

Lyanna tries not to balk, hands shaking as she opens the box to reveal the ancestral sword of House Targaryen, Aegon the Conqueror’s own Blackfyre. She curses and closes the box.

“The last exiled person of Targaryen blood to own this sword began the Blackfyre rebellion.”

“Daeron wasn’t a warrior,” says Harry. “It’s not a reflection on the sword, on bastards.”

“Aegon IV was a fool,” is Lyanna’s curt reply. “Blackfyre is a symbol as much as it is a sword. Jon’s at risk enough as it is.”

“Take it,” instructs Harry, pushing the box towards her when she shakes her head, hands remaining close to her side. “It’s Jon’s now. And if you’ll not take it, I’ll give it to your husband. The man still carries Dawn despite supposedly being dead, you think he won’t take Blackfyre for Jon, you’re mad.”

Harry isn’t incorrect so she takes the sheathed sword, wraps it in old dresses, and tucks it away beneath the bed. Arthur pretends he doesn’t know, Benjen pretends he doesn’t know what it is, and Ashara raises her eyebrows but offers not even an offhanded remark about returning it to its rightful owners. Lyanna ignores the House Targaryen ancestral sword through preparations for an engagement with pirates near the Basilisk Isles, through seeing Arthur, Benjen, and Jon off to battle, through the long, strange looks offered by warlocks from the House of the Undying who whisper behind their hands when they see her. She ignores Blackfyre right up until the announcement of an arrival and finding only Arthur without Benjen or Jon, haggard and frightened. His words when she asked where their son was will haunt her eternally:

_I don’t know, Lya. There was a storm, we capsized, and…I really don’t know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for Jon's shaved head being the big reveal for his Targaryen identity came largely from Quryuu's A Bastard's Journey (https://archiveofourown.org/works/10638453/chapters/23536584), which I absolutely love and gave me a lot of inspiration for how I wanted Aegon and Jon to interact together when they finally met. This part of the story also is pretty heavily a lead-in to switching over to the younger generation. It won't feature their POVs super heavily until everyone is in Westeros, but everyone's of an age where, character-wise, I'm not put-off by writing them. Kids are weird aliens to me until they can start to think rationally, there's no shame in my game, I'm not a kid person, I don't like to talk with kids because their thought process is alien to me. Most of the canon characters are finally out of that stage and interesting enough to take center stage.
> 
> This was the one point I wanted Arthur and Lyanna to differ. Arthur loves Jon like his own, he's the only father he's ever known, but Arthur's a warrior. He wants to plan for the possibility of Jon's future while Lyanna is his mother and wants to protect him from potentially attracting dangerous enemies. I've heard around the fandom some really interesting points about the Golden Company's relationship with book!Aegon and why people think he's not really Aegon Targaryen but rather a Blackfyre or a Lyseni pretender. It's not really relevant here aside from Jon getting Blackfyre and why Harry Strickland would hand it over. The Golden Company will (probably) make their way to Westeros at some point, but if they do it'll be more in the capacity of quashing a coup or fighting White Walkers rather than any play for the throne. Dark Sister will also be coming into play, but that sword will find its way into its wielders' hand in due time.
> 
> The comment about Jon's rash decision-making when he gets cornered is a direct clap-back to the Battle of the Bastards. How idiotic to completely dismiss Sansa's (admittedly vague) warnings and rush into battle at such a large disadvantage. He's damn lucky the Vale showed up, but that was a bit of a shit-show all around and gave me war flashbacks to Star Wars: The Last Jedi when Vice Admiral Holdo wanted to play the chain of command game when everybody on board the ship thought they were patiently waiting to die. When everyone's desperate, it's not the time to keep secrets and play the pronoun game, I'm talking to both Sansa and Holdo, you can be a strong, BAMF woman in charge and still offer a bit of clarity and explanation to men in desperate situations, I'm just saying. Also, Jon is a bit too self-sacrificing as a character, which comes partially from being raised a bastard and also is just intrinsic in his humility as a character. I have my quarrels with Daenerys' characterization as like this saintly, perfect queen with no hint of madness prior to Season 8, strong, empowering woman nonsense, but Jon just laying down his crown drove me bananas. At the end of the day, she was a foreign invader who only knows anything about Westeros through stories and rolled up with a foreign army to conquer a country she never step foot in aside from the day of her birth like she was entitled to it and was willing to set people on fire if they disagree. If you want to be a conqueror, conquer, but don't act like you have any more right to Westeros than Aegon the Conqueror did, which I'm sure is an unpopular opinion, but there we go.
> 
> Anyway, I may have talked about this before (or in the comments when someone got aggressive with me) but I don't believe in special snowflake characters so if you're worried Jon is about to become the next Daenerys, we can all breathe easy. I do intend for Jon to hatch dragons, largely because I think dragon hatching is what kickstarted a lot of things in Westeros and also because I don't think it'll go to his head as a character. Dany will remain the unburnt and will, eventually, hatch her own dragon. Someone asked is Rhaenys was going to have dragon dreams, the answer is yes, and Aegon gets his own (unwanted) claim to fame. The dragon has three heads, but I still haven't decided who excitedly those three heads are and what their roles will be in defeating the Night King so, we're all in this journey together.


	13. Jon

**293AC Old** **Valyria**

_The night is dark and full of terrors._

Melisandre of Asshai, the Red Priestess, has whispered the words in Jon’s ear since before he can remember them meeting. For as long as he’s lived, she’s always been there, holding his hand along the harbor in Braavos, burning the afterbirth of horses along the Noyne, preaching to the masses in Volantis.

_You are the light that will bring the dawn._

That always seemed rather dramatic, even little Aly thought so, always regarding Melisandre with a dubious look in her eyes. Since two years old Aly had held up a hand whenever Melisandre spoke, shook her head, and told Melisandre in no uncertain ‘No.’ Sometimes this was followed by ‘my Jon,’ ‘my Jonjon,’ or ‘you no have.’ However, much Jon has grown use to Lady Melisandre presence in his life, and her rather absurd insistency that he’s going to save the world from nighttime or darkness or whatever nonsensical thing, he can’t help but agree with his sister.

Then the darkness descended some distance north of the Basilisk Isles, the winds picked up and the waves broke against the sides of the boat with startling force. In total darkness, the fear is all-consuming, and Jon curled on the deck between his father and uncle, shivering from the cold, from his water soaked through with saltwater, and trembling from the force of his fear. Lightening split the sky, and thunder followed behind, waves and wind pushing them off course while the boat rocked with such force that experienced sailors empties their bellies on the deck.

“Are we going to capsize?” Jon asked his father.

His father had taken a deep breath and looked to Uncle Benjen.

Jon’s stomach rolled as the boat tipped enough for him to see the sea line almost touch Duck’s hair before rocking back in the other direction. Jon squeezed his eyes shut until his father’s hand fell across the back of his neck and squeezed, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Listen to me, Jon.” He opened his eyes and held his father’s eyes. “We’re going to capsize.” Jon shook his head, and his father stroked a hand over his annoyingly short hair, shushing him gently and calming him without words, with his way of quiet confidence. “Just before we capsize, I’m going to cut that rope anchoring you to the rail, and you’re going to swim to open water. Swim out as far as you can before you swim up, until your lungs start to burn to try and avoid the sails. You don’t look back. You don’t wait for me. You don’t wait for Benjen. You get out, get to the surface, and try to find something that floats if you can. The rest of the fleet can’t be far behind. They’ll find us.”

“Papa…”

“I love you. You can do this. Promise me.”

“Papa please…”

“Promise me Jon.”

He’d swiped tears from his eyes and promised.

They’d capsized not much later, and he’d done as ordered, swimming away in the chaos surrounded by nothing but churning currents and heart-rending silence until he reached the surface and heard his breaths and crashing waves, the pounding of rain and clap of thunder, and moans of injured sailors. He’d hugged a board he could just about lay on and floated until he couldn’t hear moans anymore and been pulled into a boat by the back of his shirt when the sun burnt at its peak in the sky. He’d found Uncle Benjen and Duck and Denys Strong and Black Balaq, but not his father and no one had seen him.

For days, they traveled, sharing rationed water skins and whatever foods had been hidden away on their persons. 

The mists came first, seeming to rise from the sea, then Black leapt to his feet, frowned into the distance and cursed. Jon turned and squinted through the mists at the overgrown jungle taking over the impressive ruins, vines climbing along the walls of the city.

“What is this?” Uncle Benjen had asked.

_Old Valyria…_

Jon stares at the ruins of the towers and buildings from the shore they’ve yet to leave after three days. Denys has declared every morning and evening since they washed up that they’re going to die and not a single person denied this, though Jon thought this a touch dramatic.

“Why are we going to die?” He stares at the ruins thoughtfully.

“Your father hasn’t taught you about Old Valyria?” Duck asks while Jon looks over his shoulder, reading the puzzled expression when he turns to Uncle Benjen who shrugs. “Gods above, fine, Old Valyria is cursed.”

“This is where the stonemen are sent,” corrects Uncle Benjen.

“Cursed,” reiterates Duck.

“I meant logistically,” sighs Jon.

“With this boat and the meager wildlife here, we won’t reach anything to the east, the west, or the south before we die,” says Black.

“So we go north.”

“On foot, we’ll be killed by stonemen. In the boat, we’ll be killed by stonemen and probably capsize because of the thick mists. We won’t be able to see or react in time. We have no supplies, and we’ll have to leave to get them,” remarks Duck with horror.

“It’s too dangerous to travel over land, agreed,” says Jon, eyes still on the ruins the in the distance. “Assuming we’re at the southernmost point of the Valyrian peninsula, how long will it take to reach Oros? It’s minimally inhabited, protected from the stonemen across the Smoking Sea, and has a passable road that leads to Mantarys.”

“A few days,” answers Uncle Benjen. “We’ll need water, weapons, preferably food, salt would be even better.”

Jon sets his jaw and nods his head. He checks for the dagger in his boot and looks at Denys, Black, and Duck over his shoulder.

“We’ve been here three days nursing that fire. If the stonemen don’t know we’re here, they will soon. Someone needs to hunt and smoke the meat to make it last longer. We’ll need containers for water and weapons, and there’s a whole ruined city right there.”

Their disagreements rise in chorus, and Jon shakes his head.

“We have to,” says Jon.

“Jon,” argues Uncle Benjen, crouching down in front of him and gripping his arms in a tight grip of terror that doesn’t sway Jon in the slightest. “Valyria is dangerous. They had rivers of lava before the volcanoes. No one knows how the land changed after the Doom. We don’t know where the stonemen hide. We don’t know if those ruins won’t collapse. We cannot walk around Old Valyria and pilfer, not for morals reasons, for safety.”

“So we’re to die here on this beach instead?” At Uncle Benjen’s long silence, Jon nods and shrugs. “Aly is three. My father might be dead. I will not die here. I’m going home, and if I have to pilfer dangerous Valyrian ruins to get there, then I will.”

There’s no more argument after that.

Denys and Black split from them to hunt while Duck and Uncle Benjen follow Jon through the thick jungles growing out of hardened black lava rock that looks like it hardened in the same moment it rushed over in rolls and rivulets that make walking difficult. They see no sign of the stonemen aside from abandoned campsites beneath the eaves of crumbling buildings and decaying carcasses from creatures they’d hunted and left abandoned. When they crest a nearby hill, the city sprawls out before them, breathtaking in its magnificence even falling apart, covered in vines, and desecrated by harden lava rock.

At its height Old Valyria must have been incredible to see.

“That’s Valyria,” mutters Duck.

“May the gods protect us,” mutters Uncle Benjen.

“The gods don’t live here,” replies Duck.

Jon ignores him and starts down the hill, weaving through the thick underbrush and ruins that seem to sprout from the moist ground like trees.

At the base, he starts to scramble over the river of hardened lava when a crack and hiss of steam has him falling back into his uncle’s arms with a gasp of shock. The rock crumbles revealing a river of moving, red lava beneath the surface.

“The night is dark and full of terrors,” teases Duck.

“Mama and papa hate Melisandre,” mutters Jon, following Duck downriver for an area that’s narrower across and finding a broken bridge instead, twisted and taken over by plants but passable so long as they leap over the sections fallen away into the bubbling river of lava below.

“That’s because she’s obsessed with the prince that was promised.”

“So?” Jon asks without understanding. “Jaqen’s obsessed with the Many-Faced God. Aunt Ashara prays to the Seven every day. Even mom carries around that pendant papa carved out of weirwood from the North.”

“Melisandre is a fanatic.”

“She’s a priestess.”

“Jon,” huffs Uncle Benjen while Duck looks between them, eyebrows raised and a frustrating knowledge in his eyes. “I can’t explain. Not here, not now. If you must know, ask your par…” he trails off, wincing. “Ask your mother when we get back to Qarth. It isn’t my place to answer. Some duties belong to your parents alone, all right?”

It isn’t, not really, but Jon stops asking.

The Doom left behind little aside from structural supports, and it’s grim work moving through the gigantic amphitheaters and climbing dilapidated towers and trying to make sense of the lives lost and world the those that used to live here ages earlier. They’re solemn and silent, and Jon wonders about the dragonlords of the Valyrian Freehold. Long gone are the coins and jewels that used to adorn the slender necks of the purple-eyed, silver-haired Valyrians, the surviving gems having likely been pilfered throughout the ages. He thinks the Citadel ought to do a fully-funded excavation but also wonders if the knowledge to be found in the ruins of Valyria ought to be possessed by any man at all.

Despite Duck’s condemnation, Jon’s learned about Valyria. More than a few people have called his father the blood of Old Valyria, and he spent half his early childhood as fascinated by the tales of the Valyrian Freehold and its Doom as he had been by the Kings of Winter from which his mother descended from. Dragonlords and topless towers and magic, it’s enchanting even think on, but his mother had been harder in her truths.

_Sometimes terrible things happen because the gods need the world to change, Jon_.

His mother thought the world better without dragons, without sorcery, without men whose boundless ambition could be enforced through fire and blood. His father wasn’t so adamant, but he agreed.

_Everything has a cost, Jon, and it’s rarely the person asking that ends up paying._

It hadn’t been magic that destroyed Old Valyria but an eruption of a volcano none foresaw by Daenys the Dreamer, leading Aegon the Conqueror, Visenya and Rhaenys to the shores of Westeros. Uncle Benjen said it was their Valyrian gods forsaking them while Aunt Ashara had scoffed and said it was the Lord of Light wanting to punish Westeros, more like, though that line of thought probably stemmed from Melisandre’s unannounced visit the same day. His mother asked if the Valyrian gods had cursed Westeros, sending dragons to burn the world and raise a new kingdom from its ashes. _Except for Dorne_ , his father had teased earning a nut thrown at his head from his mother that he caught in his mouth with a smirk. Uncle Benjen whispered later when tucking him in that the gods had a plan, sometimes we simply don’t understand.

_Perhaps they’re both right,_ said Davos later, _your parents and your uncle. Maybe the gods cursed Valyria but needed Old Valyrian blood. They were one of the weaker Valyrian houses you know, the Targaryens, but the strongest in Westeros. Maybe the gods made the Valyrians too strong but needed them in Westeros._

Melisandre agreed with that too, but Jon knew better than to trust Melisandre fully. She’s nice to him and talks to him with as much condescension as she does adults, but fanatics can’t ever be fully trusted, not with the safety of others, not with the safety of themselves.

In a few hours, they find jugs and waterskins to store water but not much else. Jon’s muscles ache from the strain, and he lags behind, tripping over the stair and cutting his knee as he falls to the ground. He stifles a curse even now when his father isn’t around to box his ears and warn him to watch his language, rolling up the leg of his breeches and wiping off the blood with his hand. Hissing at the pain, Jon bites his bottom lip and presses his hand to the floor, stiffening when a rumble and shake sends him crawling back.

Uncle Benjen and Duck call for him, but he doesn’t respond, too busy frowning at the porthole that opens to a dark compartment beneath the floor. Dust rises, and Jon coughs, waving a hand in front of his face. He snags one of the torches laying across the floor, lighting it with the flint he carries in his boot, and holds it aloft over the opening. A ladder descends into the darkness with a brazier of dark liquid on either side; he hesitates but hovers the flame above the braziers, they catch without prompting and one by one, flames flicker and light the dark room below. He sets the torch in the wall mount before shimmying down the ladder and entering a narrow room that takes his breath away.

It’s a storeroom of some kind, mostly untouched aside from black lava rock that’s hardened on the floor. There’s canned fruit and bags of grain, chests of jewels and bars of gold, boxes and boxes of Valyrian steel, scrolls and books and jars of something Jon suspects to be wildfire. He frowns at the three-headed dragon sigil on wall and starts towards it before his uncle’s face appear in the entry and startles him.

“Jon? What is this?”

“Storeroom of some kind,” answers Jon as Uncle Benjen calls for Duck, the two of them shouting with joy while pilfering the supplies.

Jon snags a bag hooked over the shelving and drifts closer to the sigil, running his fingers over the sigil he’s seen in Ashara’s Westerosi books on the noble houses of Westeros. His blood smears across the sigil, and a loud click reaches his eyes, the wall jerking inwards. His heart pounds, and he glances behind him at Duck and Uncle Benjen, pawing through four-hundred year old grain and spices trying to determine what’s useable. With the tips of his fingers, he pushes the door open just wide enough to slip through and finds himself in a frightening narrow staircase just wide enough for a lank boy to slip through. He glides up the staircase, up and up and up, until his muscles ache, lungs burn, and sweat pours from his skin, stairs crumbling dangerously the higher up he goes.

When he emerges it’s in a round, open-air room atop a topless tower, the arches broken and laying in ruins on the mosaic tile floors of yet another three-headed red dragon. At the center of the room is a fountain like he’s seen in highborn manses and villas in Volantis and Qarth and Pentos, but it’s not water bubbling but red molten lava with three oblong rocks in a brazier at its center, one silver with red, one white with silver, and one red with gold. He shuffles closer, peering over the ruined ledges at the reclaimed city below, brisk wind whipping his dark hair, and reaches into the fire.

The stones burn his hands, but he moves quick, tucking each into his bag one by one. He turns to leave but pauses seeing from the corner of his eye with purple eyes, heart-shaped face, silver hair that whispers his name. When he whirls around, Jon finds nothing and no one, so he hurries back the way he’d come away from the long-abandoned dragon roost of the Targaryen’s ancient Valyrian holdfast, away from the ghosts that haunt its halls and whispers his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't know if were rivers of lava pre-Doom days in Valyria. A lot of the landscape I based off of artist renderings of what people think (and hope) Old Valyria looked like. I was also intentionally vague about a lot of the details because really I think Old Valyria is one of those fictional places everyone has their own idea of what it looks like and we should all be allowed to live in that world without being intruded upon. From what I read, Daenys' vision caused her father to sell off their family's holdings in Valyria, but I thought it would be a fun way for Jon to get dragons by receiving them from a place that he is partially connected to. It's a little fantastical with somewhat intact storerooms and doors that open by blood, but it's fantasy and Valyria was apparently super advanced so why not have a little fun with Old Valyrian blood magic?
> 
> Jon's only ten in this, and I don't mean for him to seem like he's got all the answers, but I feel like because he's a kid, there's a level of fearlessness adults don't have. Adults know the dangers in Old Valyria and have been haunted by legends of cursed shores and the hopelessness of being stuck there after doing all this work to keep them alive. Jon's been squiring so he's capable, but he's also a child and doesn't have the weight of their situation resting fully on his shoulders. He's intrigued at the chance to explore and also not haunted by these legends and fears that adults have been told their whole lives, he's not facing his mortality. I used to horseback ride, and I can remember the exact moment where I realized I wasn't not immortal, and if I carried on the way I had as a child, I could actually get hurt (which is not why I quit riding, that was more practical, but still). The adults could have reached all these conclusions themselves, but they're tired and scared and haunted. Jon is ten and curious and not so bogged down by their situation.
> 
> I've read some really interesting discussion in the comments about the nature of Stark magic and it's reaction with the Wall and all those theories, and I'm so there. It's a shame that I feel like the show really ran out of time and money to explore the Wall and the Stark family because I agree it's weird that they knew what was out there and chose not to burn their dead, it's weird a Stark always has to be in Winterfell and the connection to the rise of the Night King's push south when the Starks had scattered to the wind and the mythology behind the Night King and the Kings of Winter and if he really was a Stark (I'm going with definitely yes). It directly relates to the questions I have about the Targaryens and why they're the ones that managed to escape the Doom, forty dragonlord families and one of the weaker branches managed to escape and the ones known to practice incest. I'm willing to put on my tinhat to theorize. I'm probably not going to get too into it in this story (believe it or not, this was supposed to be a quick story about Lyanna and Arthur and I couldn't stop writing so it turned into this) but I love hearing everyone's GoT theories. Hopefully the (someday maybe possibly) book will provide more answers than the TV show teased but didn't deliver on. And I swear, when George RR Martin finally releases the next novel, I will read the books, but not a moment before then. Preteen me is still waiting on Night World: Strange Fate and it's been well over a decade, so I will not go back to that endless waiting game.


	14. Varys

_Strange news from Essos_.

Varys frowns and considers the numerous pieces of information that fall together before him that would mean nothing on their own and yet a great deal together.

It’s not every day secrets manage to be hidden from the Spider. 

He knows Tywin Lannister’s golden twins have been engaging in an incestuous affair worthy of the Targaryens since early into the adolescence, thwarted once by their Aunt Genna yet never even acknowledged by Tywin. He knows those blond-haired children Stannis Baratheon looks at like they don’t belong to him, do not, in fact, belong to him at all. He knows the eldest son skins cats and cuts them open alive to see the kittens inside. 

He knows Viserys Targaryen is bitter about his betrothal to Arianne Martell, considering her too Dornish and therefore beneath a Targaryen, and has begun frequenting brothels as often as Cersei Lannister’s marriage bed. He knows Elia Martell and Jon Connington have reluctantly combined forces to keep the crown’s finances afloat, and that Petyr Baelish and King Rhaegar have gone behind them both to borrow an exorbitant amount of money from the Iron Bank to mine dragonglass and pay maesters and sorcerers and Red Priests to learn the secrets of Valyrian steel and dragon hatching and ancient Valyrian scrolls and those stolen from the North about the long night.

He knows the North has flourished in the last several years with a combination of foreign trade with Essos and southern trade with Dorne that’s increased their gross annual profit by 75%. He knows Queen Elia knows this and has neither brought it to Rhaegar’s attention nor raised their taxes accordingly herself. He knows, in fact, Queen Elia has honored the crown’s promises to the Night’s Watch and begun sending a percentage taxes and a great deal of men to the Wall.

He knows Lysa Arryn’s sheltered child is no son of Jon Arryn, and he knows that Littlefinger has spent several years siphoning off a healthy fund from the crown. He knows Pycelle is crooked and has been poisoning Queen Elia as he once poisoned Queen Rhaella. He knows Elia Martell knows this too and has a friend in the Citadel courtesy of her brother who sent her a slimy exiled master whose improved her health considerably and keep detailed notes of Littlefinger’s little monetary extractions.

He knows Queen Mother Rhaella has her lover as her sworn shield and said lover runs an organization within King’s Landing that’s as frustratingly elusive as they are incredibly talented. He knows her daughter Daenerys hates King’s Landing and loves her brother though she doesn’t like them very much. He also knows Daenerys Targaryen spends evenings holding her hand in flickering flames of fire and pours over books about Essos after listening to her niece’s stories.

He knows the bones of Ashara Dayne’s bastard daughter was never interred at Starfall, but that Benjen Stark was knighted there despite his brother slaying hers. He knows they traveled together across the Narrow Sea to Braavos and bards whisper of their tragic love, but they’re both alive and seen in each other’s company frequently, first with the Company of the Rose and later with the Golden Company.

He did not know the Sword of the Morning and Lady Lyanna Stark survived the Tower of Joy and went on the run to Essos until Ilyrio Mopatis’s ship fished the man out of the Gulf of Grief and brought him to Qarth to reunite with said lady and her half-Dornish daughter. He didn’t know Rhaegar Targaryen’s stillborn daughter was actually a still-living son gone missing until Lady Lyanna broke down in tears in Ser Arthur Dayne’s arms. And he definitely didn’t know how much of this involved magic and prophecies until reports that a Red Priestess and a shadowbinder spoke of her son and ended with Ashara holding Lyanna back from attacking the woman while Ser Arthur Dayne punched a smirking warlock from the House of the Undying and had to be physically held back from the assortment of sorcerers by the Golden Company.

Jon is what they call him but no one says his family name. Not like the little girl whose been given the family name Dayne with, Varys has only just discovered, permission from the Lord of Starfall, who the Gold Company calls silver star, little star, or wolf-star depending on the circumstance.

It sets Varys mind racing right up until he sees one of his little birds walking towards him, empty tray in hand, not looking at him.

“They’re fighting in his solar,” is the whisper on the wind.

Varys hums to himself and starts towards the source.

There is a great deal to learn about the royal family from their interactions, even from the lack thereof. Rhaella and Queen Elia, having started the latter’s reign on dreadful terms, have mellowed with Elia’s support of the Queen Mother’s relationship with Bonifer Hasty and allowance of her to take up residence in Dragonstone while attending to her daughter as she saw fit. Queen Elia might as well be king having taken up the running of the realm with masterful skill unmatched by most Targaryen kings in recent history while Jon Connington manages to convince most of the realm the gratitude lies with Rhaegar. Viserys despises a vast majority of his family save for, perhaps, his mother who he doesn’t respect, which is, perhaps, worse. Rhaenys avoids the Red Keep, responsibilities of a princess, and instead travels at her mother’s behest to keeps and holdfasts throughout the kingdom to strengthen ties and learn about the running of the realm. Aegon skips every lesson on swordplay to bury himself in histories and economics and theoretical trade deals, enduring his father’s rebukes and admonishments with stony-faced silence while Queen Elia sips her wine and rolls her eyes. Daenerys comes only when ordered by Rhaegar, distant and uncomfortable, awkwardly avoidant of Aegon in the way only two people betrothed can be and hesitant towards Rhaenys, seeing only their differences.

Queen Elia and King Rhaegar are the epicenter of this dysfunction.

King Rhaegar spends money the kingdom doesn’t have chasing dreams and prophecy and magic, languishing in Summerhall and consulting with maesters.

Queen Elia rules the Seven Kingdoms and cleans her husband’s mess and lives in the real world where food stores must be filled, taxes paid and collected, infrastructure managed, order maintained.

She’s long since hung up her mantle of bitterness for an air of polite disinterest and long-suffering indulgence, as if her husband, the king, is a ridiculous child she chooses to make time for when she’d rather be handling more important affairs.

“…madness, Rhaegar, ever yet more madness!”

Varys pauses in the corridor, hands hidden in the sleeves of his robe, and bows his head, watching two serving girls rush from the room, stricken. He sighs to himself at yet another pair of girls suddenly disenchanted with the fair, noble King Rhaegar with his princely looks and soulful eyes. It’s all too much to bear, truly.

“It’s necessary, Elia.”

“Yes, I’ve heard all this before.”

“Elia,” pleads Rhaegar, not apologetic but rather annoyed, like she’s wasting his time by choosing not to understand his motives.

“It was necessary for you to humiliate me by wooing Lyanna Stark in front of every lord in the Seven Kingdoms so she’ll run away with you and marry you and birth your prophesized child. It was necessary for you to set me aside so your prophesized child could be trueborn and then strong-arm me to remain by your side so you could keep Dorne and your honor and two of your three little dragons. It was necessary to abandon governance to me so you could chase prophecy even now not even do me the favor taking Connington with you. It was necessary to cage my daughter like you tried to cage your late lover. It was necessary for you to denigrate my son for being his own person not Aegon the Conqueror reborn. It was necessary for you to scar them both and almost kill them in another failed Targaryen effort to hatch that another cursed dragon egg! The list of things you find necessary doesn’t concern me, Rhaegar. My children concern me. The state of the realm and its finances concern me. Seven take me, your family concerns me.”

“Elia,” he says patiently, almost condescendingly, like she’s a hysterical woman in need of calming down. “I do these things for the realm.” She groans and moves to the window while Rhaegar follows behind her, stopping only when she raises a hand that stops him before he can touch her, but she waits. “Aegon must be a warrior if he’s to lead the war for the dawn. Rhaenys is supposed to be his Nissa Nissa, his partner, his light.”

“And Visenya?” Elia demands, “You see Daenerys as some kind of warrior queen, _your_ sister? She’s a sweet girl, a smart girl, but she’s no warrior Rhaegar. You put people into boxes and categorize them and try to fit together pieces that don’t align to conform to this prophecy that runs and ruins our lives over and over and over again. When are you going to stop?”

“It’s coming, Elia. The Long Night is coming. The Red Priests from Volantis have seen my son in the fire fighting the war for the dawn with a flaming sword, his sisters beside him, and dragons woken from stone flying overhead. Dragons flying above the wall, a child of ice and fire.”

“There are still repairs to infrastructure and towns along the western coast from the Greyjoy Rebellion that require our attention. Only three castles along the Wall are manned and the rest are unlivable while the Warden of the North reports an uptick in wildling attacks. There’s an outbreak of plague in Maidenpool, overcrowding in King’s Landing, a lack of proper and decent roads throughout the entirety of the kingdom. Ships must be built and paid for to return the fleet to its strength before the Ironborn. An infestation of bugs have severely damaged crops across the Reach, and it’s been a long summer. The Warden of the North recommends preparation for an equally long winter if not longer, and I’m in agreement. We don’t have the funds for you to sail off to Volantis and Qarth and Asshai, consulting with every priestess, sorcerer, shadowbinder, hedge-witch, and greenseer from the Iron Islands to Yi Ti!”

Varys is stuck on two things: the mention of Lord Eddard Stark and the mention of greenseers.

It’s not a word he’s heard frequently outside of his little birds in the North who grumble about the difficulty of gaining even a day’s foothold in the Neck or Winterfell. Seers from the north from the stories of age-old heroes and wights and White Walkers and grumpkins and snarks.

The regard Elia Martell seems to hold for Eddard Stark, the weight she gives his word, the things she’s allowed of the North. He wonders what she knows about this little Blackfyre—this little Targaryen, he recalls with some degree of shock—being raised by the Sword of the Morning and Lady Lyanna Stark a world away in Essos. At the very least, she must know the boy exists, must be making as much a conscious effort to keep his existence from Rhaegar as she is maintain good relations with his maternal family.

“I need all the information that can be provided. It’s information as much as dragonglass and Valyrian steel that will win the war for the dawn.”

“Do as you please, Rhaegar,” says Elia coldly, turning to glare at him, “you always do anyway. And as always, I will find a way to pay back the Iron Bank, prepare for winter, raise your children, tend to your family, feed your people, and rule your Kingdom while you chase the same foolishness that almost brought an end to this kingdom’s future.”

“Aegon will come with me, learn to be a warrior, and I’ve received a letter from Kinvara. She’s seen him in the flames, seen him in Old Valyria and dragons flying above the Dothraki Sea.”

“No,” says Elia, tone unforgiving and also surprised by her own force. Varys frowns while Elia blinks and clears her throat, turning away while her fingers play with the Myrish lace fabric of dress. “No,” she repeats, calmer, voice hoarse, “Aegon will go to Oldtown with my brother and young Samwell Tarly and Willas Tyrell to visit the Citadel, because my son is intelligent with a voracious lust for knowledge and a determination to make a difference through books, not a warrior, not your promised prince, not your pawn in this mythical fight for dawn and a prophecy that has ruined this country and this family. I will not allow you to destroy my children any further. You’re more than welcome to drive this country’s finances to ruin on an endless search for validation, but I’ll not have you ruining my son for the same reason. Take your Kingsguard who worship you and leave running this household and this kingdom to me without any of your useless interference.”

“You have no right—”

“I would rather be in Sunspear than here in this shithole of King’s Landing mopping up your mess like a spoiled, errant child. So, say again Rhaegar, what right have I to command you, to countermand you, to speak to you this way. The evidence still exists, and I’m losing my resolve to see this through for the kingdom’s sake rather than leave you here to drown in your own failings taking my children and my country with me.”

“You’re bitter,” states Rhaegar in a dreamy tone, placing a hand on Elia’s cheek that she knocks away, “but one day you’ll understand.”

Rhaegar leaves, and Elia seethes.

Varys turns to leave when his name is purred in a silky yet dangerous tone that sets the little hairs on his arm on end. He steps out of the hallway and into the king’s solar where the queen has long since taken up residence while the king turns the library into his own personal research room. He bows while Elia pours herself a cup of Dornish Red, as she often does, and takes her cursory first sip. If he knows her well—and he does—she’ll not take more than two throughout the duration the conversation, prone to looking like a lush before derisive courtiers and yet not never losing her head to drink.

It’s a skill he’s been impressed by for some years, the way Elia Martell manipulates her own reputation.

“You don’t often spy yourself.”

“Your Grace, I apologize. I only happened to overhear.”

“Did you?” Elia asks pleasantly. “That’s a shame, to think I’d been so self-congratulatory on throwing a goblet to send that little cupbearer running to her master for you to already be here. I do hate to be excessive.”

Varys blood runs cold in her veins, and Elia Martell smiles, tapping the points of her nails on the goblet.

“It’s a strange thing to have been away from one’s home so long,” sighs Elia, looking at him from beneath her eyelashes, studying him with uncomfortable intensity. “You ought to relate well. I’ve been prepared all my life to leave Dorne upon marriage, and yet here I am, queen of the Seven Kingdoms, with two kids and responsibilities, and I’m homesick but also quite clear in my goals. Something is coming Varys.” His face falls, and she laughs, a tinkling, melodious sound. “Not _that._ And if it is, I pray to the Stranger every day that he take Rhaegar before the Long Night ever comes. I’ll not have his madness validated, not after everything he’s done for it.”

Varys watches her, and Elia tilts her head, examining him.

“You think it horrible that I pray for my husband’s death? I don’t truly. Rhaegar dying would be more trouble than it’s worth. Viserys would fight for the throne and the right to marry his sister since he’s ‘the last dragon.’ Rhaenys would fight for her brother’s right for the throne. Aegon would ride out for the Citadel the very next day and breathe a word to no one. And the Seven only know what Rhaella and Daenerys would do. Then there’s that grasping harpy Cersei and that conniving little shit Littlefinger and Connington, odious man. No, I don’t want Rhaegar dead; I only ask that if our lifetime yields the Long Night he dies before ever seeing even a glimmer of his prophecy come to fruition. It’s the least of which he deserves.”

“Pardon, your Grace, how may I be of service?”

Elia smiles, a thin-lipped grin. “Family is a funny thing. The Targaryens are not my family, but if I protect them and not Rhaegar does that not make them mine?” She taps her finger against the goblet and fixes her eyes on a painting of Daeron the Young Dragon, a tactless nod to the conquest of Dorne from her lord husband. “I once thought there was nothing to be gained from the dishonorable northmen, but Eddard Stark has managed to teach me something all the same. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Blood of my blood is still my kin, whether I want them to be or not. But I am also Dornish, and if I’m cowed by a girl who has repented for her humiliation of me by spending years in exile and allowing her son to grow up without a family name am I truly Unbowed, Unbent, and Unbroken? I have been raised believing Dorne alone does not judge a child for the circumstances of their birth, and if I intend to change Westeros, then I must do so by example.”

“Very good, your Grace,” agrees Varys despite his confusion as to where this conversation leads.

“Something…troubling has happened in Essos as I’m certain you’ve heard.” She gives him a hard look that encourages his honesty, and Varys only waits. “I want your little birds to find the source, and, should the outcome be favorable, provide transport to White Harbor with all due haste.”

“Your Grace?” Varys startles at this pronouncement, having expected it to conclude at a very different aim.

Elia smiles a little and sips her wine. “It’s time for the little dragonwolf and his family to come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late, my bad, I got sucked into a harlequin historical romance novel after watching the new Emma movie and reading that book for the first time, and I'm in love with Emma and Knightley's relationship, tbh.
> 
> Anyway, Varys is usually so in the know largely because of the amount of contacts he has, but I considered for a while how much it would make sense for him to know, and I'm largely satisfied with the idea that much of Jon's life was outside his purview. Truthfully, even Doran Martell knows more about Jon's existence than Varys because, as it has been pointed out, Dorne has contacts in Norvos due to Doran's former marriage that would almost certainly make note of Ser Arthur Dayne. Varys, though, would have had no little birds to note Lyanna's existence, her exodus, and her resettlement since nobody of note is talking. No one in Winterfell knows outside Ned and only Starfall would have any large scale knowledge that could potentially leak, but with so much treason involved, they'd play that close to the chest. If Varys didn't hear of Arya in Braavos, he'd have no reason to hear of Lyanna and Arthur, and since they made a concentrated effort to avoid the western coastline of Essos, his contacts likely wouldn't have seen or recognized Arthur. It's fun to consider anyway, how far behind he is. Elia's playing the long game and holds all the cards. She's single-handedly holding the kingdom and royal family together. There's too many schemers for that to last, unchallenged forever, but she definitely has the upper hand.
> 
> Before anyone starts coming at me about Aegon, he's not ever going to become a maester, but years of watching his parents has certainly soured his taste for ruling and he's smart enough to not want power. I have an idea of how I want this story to end in terms of the political situation in Westeros that makes use of all the siblings and their strengths, but I still have a lot of research to do on the feasibility of that idea so nothing's been decided yet but I have no intention of shafting Aegon aside for Jon to have the throne. Truthfully, of all the siblings in this story, Rhaenys is politically best suited to hold the throne, but even she's too much a wanderer to desire being tied to King's Landing and the Iron Throne.
> 
> Elia makes a really pointed comment here about not wanting Rhaegar to be alive to see his prophecy come true, and it's not that she fully believes that it might, she's just concerned. She's kept in contact with Ned and the Night's Watch so even though wights and White Walkers haven't made their way far enough south to be worrisome, by now she'd have heard of increased wildling attacks and Mance Rayder gathering the clans together, news enough to make her apprehensive. He definitely won't live to see that come to fruition, because even if I wanted him to play that role, I think he's too set in his ways to help rather than hinder. He has a clear picture in his mind of what this looks like and has conflated a lot of legends and prophecy and predictions that he can't rationally be of assistance anymore. If they're going to win, they can't have Rhaegar trying to force his dreams to play out in real life, because he's really far off the mark.


	15. Arthur

The amount of times Arthur has seen Lyanna truly break is so minimal he could count them on one hand and still have fingers. She isn’t the sort to give in to emotional disturbance, and in any case, his sister has always said women bear the weight of the world with much more dignity than men. He believes her utterly.

The shock of the loss had come and passed in an instant, followed by guilt when she watched Ashara and Alysanne hug him with something like relief in her eyes, before the shock and horror arrived again when Ashara collapsed against Arthur in tears for the loss of her husband. Before she could redirect to her typical method of grim, stoic problem-solving, Melisandre opened her mouth.

_He is the prince who was promised and here begins his destiny. He will wake dragons from stone._

He and Lyanna endured Melisandre with silent aggravation since starting their lives in Braavos. They’d long agreed that to raise children that could make their own decisions and still be conscious of the consequences, they had to be capable of choosing their own friends. Jon was fascinated by Melisandre, her red hair and red dress and talk of R’hllor, fascination blossomed to respect and curiosity about the nature of the Red Priests that mirrored curiosity of the Many-Faced God and the Seven and the Old Gods and even the Drowned God from the one time Ashara mentioned him. He was dubious about her prophecies, he fanatical mumblings about the prince that was promised and the war for the dawn.

_Prophecy is open to a great deal of interpretation. How can you be so convinced one way or the other?_

So Arthur and Lyanna endured her presence in their life for Jon’s sake…right up until the moment she tried to say Jon’s loss somewhere in the Smoking Sea in the dangerous ruins of Old Valyria surrounded by stonemen and no way to get home unless the Golden Company mounted a search of its shores is all a part of the Lord of Light’s plan to make Jon his champion, the prince who was promised.

Arthur wanted to wring her neck, unwilling to listen to more nonsense about this prophecy that’s destroyed both their lives, Jon’s, and most of the Seven Kingdoms. He’d not foreseen Lyanna attacking her until Ashara caught her mid-lunge and Gendry helped pull her away while the shadowbinder watched from beside one of Qarth blue-lipped warlocks with a flinty, knowing look.

_Only death can pay for life_.

It’s something Arthur had heard before, most often from Jaqen H’gar in reference to Jon’s questions about the ethics of the Faceless Men taking jobs as assassins in order to honor their gods and if that really makes them any better than sellswords who have the decency to fight a war in the open. Lyanna wasn’t certain she’d agreed with that while Arthur certainly had, but in the end, Arthur never heard it in reference to a child he’d raised and trained and loved from the blue lips of a sorcerer with a tight-lipped smirk. He didn’t remember passing Aly into Ashara’s arms or Ilyrio Mopatis watching him with wide-eyed fascination, but he remembered grabbing the fabric of his robes, hauling him forward, punching him once and not stopping under he was dragged off.

He didn’t know what it said about their lifestyle that in the midst of that chaos and watching her father try to beat someone to death with his fists, Alysanne sits calm beside Gendry with Jon’s cat on her lap and eyes searching the crowd.

Ashara and Lyanna leave together, stiff and unwelcoming towards the sorcerers wanting to be alone in their grief and not the subject of so much conversation.

“Papa,” says Aly, peering up at him with Lyanna’s gray eyes, “where my Jonjon?”

Arthur doesn’t know how to answer. Ilyrio’s ship from Pentos had been the one to find him after drifting far south nearer the Basilisk Isles. Better Ilyrio than a pirate, but Ilyrio was for Qarth to treat with the Thirteen and would not make time to return Arthur to the Golden Company. By the time they reached shore, Harry Strickland had sent a list of the survivors they picked up in the sea along with a suspicion that some of the other may have drifting to the shores of Old Valyria and the Smoking Sea. It’s cold comfort to Arthur and Lyanna. They’ll go after Jon, one of them will at least, but they’re a world away from Valyria, stuck at the edge of the world in Qarth. He’s too smart to stay hunkered down on the shores of Old Valyria waiting for rescue. They’ll be chasing Jon, always ten steps behind.

“My little Aly,”says Arthur, crouching down in front of her and pressing a kiss to her forehead, “there was an accident, and we don’t know where your brother is. We’re going to find him. We’re not going to stop looking until we have him back.”

Aly’s eyebrows furrow together, but she nods.

“I have to go help your mother and aunt. Are you okay?”

“I stay with Gendry,” says Aly, smacking a kiss to Arthur’s lips. “You help mama and auntie, yes.”

Arthur nods and meets young Gendry’s eyes before retreating through the streets and out of the gates to the encampment outside its walls. He peeks in on Ashara first, in the tent she shares with Benjen, but she waves him off and mutters tersely that she wants to be alone. He squeezes her hand before he leaves and presses a kiss to her forehead, praying to Seven that she’ll survive this loss better than she’d survived the loss of her child. Loss isn’t a thing Ashara handles well, getting lost in her grief, and Arthur doesn’t know what else to do but be there for her when she's ready.

When he slips into his own tent, he finds Lyanna sitting on the bed, legs crossed beneath her and eyes red but dry, unfocused in the distance. She’s hunched in on herself and shrinking beneath the covers and arms wrapped around herself. Despite the heat, Lyanna is shivering and flinches when he sits on the bed across from her. Arthur draws a cold hand into his and watches her silently until he realizes she’s withdrawn too deep into herself to start the conversation.

“Lya. She shakes her head, and he presses a kiss to her knuckles, feeling relieved when her eyes well with tears, emotion preferred over this blank nothingness. “Lya, my love.”

“Don’t,” chokes Lyanna, “don’t be nice to me right now.”

“Lya, I need you to talk to me,” says Arthur, hand on her cheek. “I can’t help you fix it if I don’t know what it is.”

“I’m pregnant,” she admits, hollow and defeated, “that’s why I didn’t go.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” says Arthur. She startles and looks up at him. “We weren’t attacked, Lyanna. The storm came out of nowhere, the ship capsized. I cut him loose knowing there’s a chance I might never see him again, because I believed it better for him to be alive somewhere alone than dead with me. That was my choice.”

Lyanna shakes her head and worries her bottom lip.

“I pray to every god I’ve ever heard of,” confesses Lyanna in a single breath. “Bad things don’t happen to bad people; they happen to people they care about so they can learn and be punished.” Alarmed, Arthur stares at Lyanna with horrifies realization. They both live with their regrets, with their broken vows and past mistakes, and some days are better than others. Some days they can forget the people they’ve wronged and lives they’ve ruined, and some days Arthur hacks away a green recruits or hides in the forge while Lyanna rides endlessly for hours and shoots arrows at trees until the sun sinks beneath the horizon. But this, this he hadn’t known she lived with. “I lost my home and my father and my brother, and maybe that pays for what I broke and what I stole, but I look at Jon and I can’t bring myself to regret anything, wouldn’t change anything if it meant I wouldn’t have him. Elia Martell set aside. My father and brother dead. An entire war fought in my name. And I would change nothing to keep Jon in my life, isn’t that a crime all its own?”

“There is nothing wrong with loving your child,” says Arthur carefully.

Half-smile on her face and tears falling over her cheeks, she meets his eyes.

“But there’s something wrong with being regretful of what I’ve done only up until it pertains to Jon,” she reads him easily. 

Arthur doesn’t know how to respond. He loves Jon no differently than Alysanne, than the child Lyanna carries now, has raised him since he was born, soothed his wounds and guided his hands, but he didn’t carry him, didn’t look at him and see all the blood shed to bring him into the world. Not like Lyanna who’d lost her brother and father, whose betrothed led his bannermen into a war in her name, who’d gained him at the cost of Elia’s marriage and safety. Arthur had seen so many horrible things and broken so many vows that he could separate Jon from the mistakes that led to his creation. Lyanna couldn’t or wouldn’t.

“I’m happy, Arthur. I have everything I ever wanted…at cost to everybody else.”

He understands, truly. Lyanna was destined for a life as the Lady of Storm’s End, stifled and shackled, worth found only in her beauty and her womb while Robert Baratheon whored and drank his way through the Seven Kingdoms while proclaiming his love for her. That’s all a lady is worth, and he can’t imagine forcing his own daughter to suffer through that sort of indignity. Arthur had been Kingsguard, disgraced long before he abandoned his scaled armor and white cloak, to stand silent sentinel by a procession of kings who didn’t deserve loyalty or protection from the things they’ve done.

“It isn’t fair, Arthur, and the gods are punishing me for being happy after all I’ve done.”

Arthur understands her, but he’s also given her plenty of time to wallow in self-pity. He usually allows her more, but Jon is missing, she’ll have to lament her past another day.

“Maybe they are,” replies Arthur while Lyanna’s eyes find his in surprise. “Maybe we’re both terrible people who don’t deserve the happiness we’ve found. You wouldn’t change anything that got you Jon, and I wouldn’t either, and it’s horribly selfish of both of us, but there it is.” Lyanna gapes at him in surprise, but Arthur hardens his resolve and shrugs. “We should do what we can to make up for past mistakes, but Jon hasn’t done a thing to anyone. All that boy has done is be brought into this world. So what if the gods are punishing us? If the gods want to punish us, they’re more than welcome to try, and if Elia wants to, she’s owed that too. But no one can have Jon, not the gods and not the king and not the lords of Westeros, not Melisandre or Rhaegar’s prophecy or Dorne, no one. So whenever you’re ready, I would like to go find our son, because we’ve trained him too well for him to lay down and die just because of a capsized ship and an unplanned trip to Old Valyria.”

His words startle a laugh from Lyanna’s lips, but she worries her bottom lip, folding her hands in her lap.

“I’m a liability, aren’t I? I won’t be able to keep up, not pregnant, and there’s so much danger Jon could get in around Valyria.”

“I still remember the first thing you said Rhaegar when he ordered you to stop riding after the midwife confirmed your pregnancy.”

_If the Dothraki can manage it, so can I._

Lyanna laughs a little, hand pressing against the slight curve of her stomach.

“I was five and ten.”

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t right. I’ve never put limits on you and won’t start now. Jon is your son, and I won’t stop you from doing all you can to bring him home. I trust you to know your limits. You trust me to do my best to protect you and our children even if you think you don’t need the protection, and we’ll get through this together.”

She exhales slowly and slips into his lap, curling up against his chest.

“We have to talk to Melisandre.”

Lyanna stiffens in his arms but doesn’t immediately reject his statement.

“Remember the day he met Syrio Forel and went missing for hours until Melisandre said he was dancing with the sealord’s First Sword?” Lyanna shakes her head and starts to argue, but Arthur continues. “And when he was swimming in the Noyne and got swept by the current downstream, and she told us to find Khal Bharbo by the fork of the river, and the khal’s son was helping a slave tend him.” Again, Lyanna tries to disagree, but Arthur continues, undeterred. Unlike Aly, who’d inherited all of Lya’s wolfblood and none of Arthur’s calm consideration, Jon had been an easy child, quiet, thoughtful, and well-behaved. Being an easy child didn’t mean he’d been immune to trouble finding him. “And when he’d wandered off in Volantis and met Rhaenys and Arianne and Oberyn, and Melisandre told us—”

“Yes, all right, Arthur, I get your point well enough. I just can’t stand the way she talks.”

“Like Rhaegar,” agrees Arthur, “and I don’t disagree with you, Lya, but she’s proven she has a vested interest and ability to help bring our son home, whatever the reason, whatever the god. Jon and Aly were raised better than to accept her talk of prophecy at face value. We do what we have to in order to return Jon to us, yes?”

“Yes,” agrees Lyanna without pause, though she wrinkles her nose.

Before they can discuss it further, the flaps to the tent are thrown aside, and the horsemaster stands, eyes wide with fear and desperation. His chest heaves, face read from running far and fast.

“Aly,” he huffs, “something’s wrong with Aly.”

Arthur and Lyanna are up and running where the horsemaster leads without pause. Ashara emerges from her tent, looking between them with fear before following. They race through the encampment, drawing more attention than Arthur is comfortable with so close to Ilyrio Mopatis whose ties to Westeros are enigmatic but tenable. They’re led through the city gates and to the forge where they’d left Gendry with their daughter.

He isn’t certain what he’d been expecting but not for her to be sitting on the stoop outside, encircled by a crowd that consists of a combination of Golden Company members snarling at the warlocks and shadowbinders, Ilyrio Mopatis with some members of the Thirteen, slaves and smallfolk. She sits cross-legged, hands on her knees, eyes rolled back just their white, and a bead of blood dribbling over her lips and off her chin. Jon’s cat sits in front of her, watching while Melisandre stands in front of her and watches with a disturbing gleam in her eyes.

“Aly!” Lyanna calls, crouching down in front of Alysanne while Ashara moves to her side to check her pulse. Arthur watches Melisandre, hand on the hilt his sword. With shaking hands, Lyanna cups their daughter’s face. “Alysanne.”

Alysanne exhales, eyes rolling back, and swaying like she’s exhausted while Gendry hesitates behind, unsure how to help. Arthur nods to him with reassurance, and Gendry relaxes but watches Melisandre, the shadowbinder, and the warlocks with wariness, one hand holding his warhammer.

“Find Jon. Find Jon. Have to find Jon.” Her eyes meet Lyanna’s. “Like he teach me.”

“He taught you…”. Lyanna trails off and looks between Ashara and Arthur with confusion.

“Wargs,” mutters Ashara with shock. “Like Howland said all those years ago. They’re wargs.”

“Your children have the blood of the First Men,” says the shadowbinder.

“The dragonwolf will wake dragons from stone,” says the warlock, “for the dragon must have three heads.”

“Your wolfstar will lead you to her brother, born of ice and fire,” agrees the shadowbinder wistfully.

“Where do we find him?” Arthur asks, looking between them but lingering the longest on Melisandre.

The Red Priestesses looks at him, lips pursed and the tiniest smirk on her face. “The Lord of Light has shown me a vision in the flames. You will find them in the west in the shadow of the Mother and purified in her Womb.”

“Vaes Dothrak,” surmises Ashara quickly, determination replacing her heartbreak upon on hearing Jon may not be alone. “The Mother of the Mountain and the Womb of the World.”

“And what is Jon doing in Vaes Dothrak?” Lyanna demands with burgeoning panic, “Outsiders don’t just _go_ to Vaes Dothrak.”

“He is building an army to fight the darkness. A shield to guard the realms of men. Remember the words of your house, Lady Stark.”

Lyanna clenches her but doesn’t speak, nostrils flared with rage that Arthur shares however much he wants to pack his family and book the first passage off Qarth to any city in the northwest that allows him quick and easy access to Vaes Dothrak and the Dothraki Sea.

_Winter is coming._

Ashara looks between Lyanna and Arthur, keeping her hold on Alysanne as the girl intones.

“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like Vaes Dothrak is not that far west except by comparison to Qarth, but, you know, I just really wanted Jon to meet Khal Drogo and go to Qarth. Unapologetic Khal Drogo lover up in here, and from what I've heard his initial behavior with Daenerys is less questionable in the book than in the show. I'm not going to ponder why the writers of the show felt the need to cut out the part where Khal Drogo basically asks for Dany's consent before consummating their marriage but there are so many questionable choices in the show that I'll just let it go. Anyway somebody threw out Jon/Khal Drogo as a pairing, and I really enjoy working in LGBTQIA representation. I'm too much a Drogo/Dany shipper to write Jon/Drogo but I like them here as friends. I'm going to have a little Loras/Renly and even less Renly/Aegon, but I was always fairly disappointed by how quick with bypassed LGBT pairings in the show. Renly and Loras I wasn't particularly interested in, they were toothlessly conniving and pretty bland by comparison to most of the other characters in my opinion, but that we got Oberyn for so short a time is a travesty (I just loved Oberyn, what can I say?)
> 
> Lyanna's extreme guilt is actually derived from a family superstition that bad things happen to loved ones of bad people rather than the people themselves. Her guilt regarding the pregnancy is actually inspired by Sons of Anarchy season 1 and 2 when it's revealed Tara is pregnant on the heels of Able's abduction (spoiler alert, I guess for people who didn't see the show). I think it also makes sense for Lyanna to shoulder a lot of that guilt even now especially considering how much she loves Jon. It's difficult to be regretful for something that you did and love the result of it at the same time. She has a great life, a family, and Jon at cost to others so she's taking responsibility but not regretful. It's a thin line to walk and the next time it really gets brought up is going to be in Westeros. I fully believe you can't heal old wounds without painful, constructive conversation, but I think Lyanna and Elia are mature enough to make amends and move on, everybody else on the other hand is going to have some difficulties.
> 
> I wrote this chapter before I had an interesting convo about the foundations of the Dayne family and a theory about whether or not they had the blood of the First Men. I like this theory and it helps explain her warging at this age, but also I think warging is just such a long declining skill that people stopped being trained in it, but I wonder if Jon, Arya, and Bran could have been capable of warging on purpose much earlier if the skill had been identified and trained, but that's just a theory. Anyway, back to Westeros on Wednesday with Rhaenys, Aegon, and young Samwell Tarly because I love Sam.


	16. Rhaenys

Rhaenys Targaryen had less desire to be in Oldtown than King’s Landing. At least in that cursed city she could encourage Barristan Selmy or Uncle Lewyn or even Sandor Clegane into a spar far from the disapproving eyes of her father, the Hand, and the Small Council. In Oldtown, Rhaenys had only her uncle and Brienne and an absurd number of old men who turned up their nose at a girl wandering their hallows halls— _no women beyond this point, no exceptions_ —yet foreswore their vows in the evenings when no one watched to cavort with prostitutes populating the numerous Oldtown brothels.

Why her mother sent her along with her bookish baby brother and his equally bookish friend to spend ten hours a day staring at the Citadel and sparring with Brienne and dragging her uncle out of brothels to do anything even remotely productive, Rhaenys had yet to discern.

Her father had departed from Blackwater Bay for Asshai the same day they went to Oldtown with minimal fanfare and even less concern for his family’s wellbeing. He’d instructed her and her mother, in no uncertain terms, that Arianne and the Sand Snakes were not welcome in King’s Landing for the duration of his trip, and that Rhaenys was not to be sent to them in his absence. Her mother had agreed to those terms with gritted teeth and cool dismissal by declaring Rhaenys would be traveling to Oldtown with Aegon and Samwell Tarly before going north to Bear Island and House Mormont to learn about the North.

She could think of nothing she wanted to do less than go North where the woman who’d shamed her mother was still revered as though she’d been the wronged party and not their queen. Though, Rhaenys supposed, it was much easier to forgive one’s sins when they were no longer around to argue their side. How quick the living forgot the wrongs of the dead.

Rhaenys could not forget.

Dorne could not forget.

Her blood ran hot and lethal every time she slipped into a tavern with Brienne or Arianne or, gods forbid, Daenerys and heard the Lament of Lady Lyanna. That stupid song the bards sang, though she heard versions differed greatly between the north and south. In the south, Lady Lyanna’s only disgrace of Queen Elia came from being crowned Queen of Love and Beauty at the tourney of Harrenhall so many years ago for being the Knight of the Laughing Tree, the rest exaggeration of Rhaenys’ father hiding her from his father in Dorne to prevent the inevitable war and throwing herself from the long-abandoned Tower of Joy in grief over her father and brother. In the north, Myrcella Baratheon and Margaery Tyrell told her they sang of Lady Lyanna and then-Prince Rhaegar falling in love and running away to save her from Aerys and Robert Baratheon both and committing suicide in grief over her dead daughter, Visenya.

Dorne didn’t sing about Lady Lyanna, not ever.

Rhaenys imagined she’d be finding out soon enough. The thought of spending months in the cold, grim North, home to the woman who’d caused so much suffering and done her mother such a terrible wrong chafing. She couldn’t imagine what her mother was thinking in sending her to such a place, even if Bear Island was ruled by women as strong as her mother and grandmother, with warrior daughters and a fearsome reputation.

She wanders into the manse alone, having been abandoned by Brienne in the yard to practice more with Willas Tyrell and his younger brother, Loras. Her skin is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, muscles aching pleasantly, and hair falling from her ponytail, wisps sticking to her face. If her father saw her in breeches and a fitted tunic, muscles toned and skin glistening with sweat, he’d look down his nose at her and declare her behavior unfit for a Princess of House Targaryen no matter how often he encouraged sweet, diplomatic Daenerys to take up the sword. Jon Connington, infuriating Hand of the King, would say she looks exceptionally Dornish.

Aegon says nothing.

Her brother doesn’t even look up from where he’s pouring over delicate scrolls and open books with Samwell Tarly, his closest friend and the only person who understands him.

Aegon is growing into a beautiful boy, all Targaryen, the picture of Old Valyrian beauty with his pale skin, silver hair, and purple eyes. He’s also lanky and soft in the obvious way of a boy whose never picked up weapons for any length of time and spends no time in the sun that isn’t required of him. He calls himself a pacifist, but Rhaenys calls him hopeless with a sword like his friend Sam. Though, Sam disagrees and says Aegon doesn’t apply himself, doesn’t want to. He’d rather be submerged in books than wield a sword, rather defy their father in his quiet way than live up to his expectations.

Rhaegar Targaryen wants to see his son as Aegon the Conqueror reborn, but Aegon wants to see himself remembered as Bran the Builder returned. The green fossilized dragon egg their father fawns over is used by Aegon only to discuss alchemical principles with Sam and healing properties with Qyburn and historical likelihoods with Pycelle.

She loves her brother, though. Aegon has no need to raise a sword; Rhaenys will do it for him.

Rhaenys pours herself a cup of water and drifts closer to Aegon and Sam, peering at the books with shock.

“Are those from the Citadel?”

“Yes,” answers Aegon.

“I thought you couldn’t take books from the Citadel.”

“You can’t,” agrees Sam.

“We received permission from Archmaester Marwyn when I told him I wanted to do a couple extended research projects.”

Research and the Citadel have been touchy subjects in their family since well into Rhaenys’ childhood. Most of memory included long stretches of time absent her father, gone to Oldtown or Volantis or Great Uncle Aemon at the wall for ‘research.’ She’s long since preferred his long stretches of absence where her mother laughs freely and applauds Rhaenys when she trains in the yard with Oberyn or Barristan. Where Rhaenys isn’t forced into attending lessons with the septa on courtly manners rather than training with the Small Council or Maester Pycelle on diplomacy, trade, and governance. Where Daenerys rides spirited Dornish mares and debates Essosi foreign policy and the Westerosi stance on slavery in a tone of steel. Where Aegon can hole away in the library for hours and tinker on little inventions he constructs in consultation with carpenters and forgers.

Rhaenys loves her father, but she isn’t sure she likes having him around.

“What are you researching?”

Aegon looks up at her, reading her tone perfectly, and Sam glances back and forth between them, gulping before burying his face back in the tome he’s flipping through.

“Not prophecy.”

“Egg…”

“Sam and I have been discussing alterations to shipbuilding to allow more cargo space and better aerodynamics which would allow them to travel faster with more cargo for less money, but we have to go over designs and feasibility. I think I have a solution to King’s Landings sewage problem, but I need to consult with some people to see if it’s structurally sound. We’ve bouncing ideas around about the Reach’s pest problem. Yi Ti has some flowers with properties to repel bugs of these nature, maybe even kill them, but that requires more research and consideration, but there’s also the matter of glass houses like in the north, which wouldn’t work on the large scale, but perhaps something similar to ensure some plants can survive and yield a harvest. Then there’s the matter of food preservation, and I’ve been writing to Uncle Aemon and Lord Eddard Stark about food preservation in cold rooms in the north—”

“I understand,” Rhaenys cuts him off, huffing. “Have you ever considered addressing these one topic at a time?”

Both Sam and Aegon look up at this question.

“Is that how your brain works?” Aegon asks with genuine curiosity while Sam shakes his head.

She wonders sometimes how this Targaryen Bran the Builder will ever be a king. He’s compassionate, yes, mindful of the people, and a genius, but that’s half the problem. Aegon is an inventor, mind always running in a million directions, and no patience for the politics surrounding anything he wants done, not when he’s certain it will improve people’s lives. He can’t be much worse than their father who’s long since left the running of the kingdom to their mother while he takes all the praise for her work, occasionally implementations of Aegon’s ideas. Certainly, he can’t be worse than grandfather, but she wonders how much of his reign will be filled with half-completed projects and angry outbursts at lords and council members for working to block implementations of his ideas.

“What is this?” Rhaenys asks, picking up a bound journal with pages and pages of handwritten notations.

“The last High Septon’s diary,” says Sam when Aegon refuses to acknowledge her, too deep into whatever he’s found and jotting notes in messy scrawl on a piece of parchment.

“Archmaster Marwyn recommended it. Said he had some revolutionary ideas about public works like those healing clinics and free schools Ashara Dayne hosts over in Essos,” says Aegon without looking up.

Rhaenys purses her lips curiously and slips into a seat at the end of the table, flipping through the pages.

“Imagine how life could change for the smallfolk if they had access to affordable healing centers and schooling?” Aegon says in amazement while Sam nods in agreement.

She peers at him over the pages of the journal.

“Next you’ll be suggesting the crown fund programs to teach smallfolk sums and letters.”

“Why not?”

Sam glances between them and titters nervously.

“Because every lord from Sunspear to Queenscrown would protest.”

“Of the cost or the consequences?”

“Both.”

Aegon sighs and lowers his quill to watch Rhaenys with soft but unmistakable disapproval.

“That’s no reason not to, Rhaenys.” Rhaenys’ expression hardens at her brother’s gentle chastisement. “It’s our duty to improve the lives of our people. We can’t stagnant their development and growth so that the lords can remain corrupt and unquestionable forever. People in power should be beholden to the smallfolk. We have a duty not a right. We should raise them up not crush them beneath our heel.”

“And when have Targaryens ever done that?” Rhaenys snaps, losing her temper. “We are the blood of the dragon. The descendants of conquerors.”

“That’s the problem, I think,” agrees Aegon. “In Valyria, the Targaryens were one of forty, certainly not the most revered yet the ones the gods sought to grant life to, avoidance of a terrible fate. When they came here, they had dragons and stood above the Westerosi, who’d already developed a tentative peace amongst themselves, because they could. The King of Winter bent the knee to save his people. The Kings of the Reach and the West were decimated. Only Dorne stood Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken and that was only because Dorne is geographically advantageous...and morally ambiguous, but how many died so Aegon the Conqueror could rule the Seven Kingdoms? How many died because it’s easy to loose flame down on an enemy that face them on the battlefield and let them die a death that’s human? He built that thrice-damned throne so he could sit on the ruins of a land he invaded and subjugated, affirming he’d mastered them again and again and again. I am a servant of the realm. I want to be better than a dragon, better than a Targaryen. I want to build things that last not tear down what others have built to craft a legacy for myself.”

Rhaenys stares at her brother in mute disbelief.

Her mother had taught them something comparable. That as a prince and princess of the realm, they were held to a higher standard, expected to do their duty and serve the realm.

_Valar Dohaeris_

She remembered her friend from Volantis telling her when she complained about the laundry list of things expected of her a year or so ago. He let his sister climb on him like of monkey from Sothoryos, pulling his curls and giggling. She couldn’t remember seeing such patience from an elder brother before in her life, not among highborns in Westeros. And Jon, he talked like a highborn, held himself like a lord or a knight of the realm, yet he’d sparred with her on the banks of the Rhoyne without protest, yielding despite having the upper hand to chase down his sister before she could wandering in the dangerous waters and refusing Brienne only because he needed to keep an eye on little Aly. Unlike anyone from Essos Rhaenys ever met, he spoke to slaves like he spoke to the nobles, equally respectful and unusually thoughtful.

_We all serve, masters or family or our community or the realm. We owe it to ourselves to serve to our best abilities, and we owe it to our communities to serve them with diligence and respect. If we all serve each other rather than just ourselves, then we leave the world better than we find it._

Both her uncle and her mother agreed, her uncle with brooding discomfort.

Her little brother would be the sort of king that lived a short life if he ascended the throne with this mindset, so Rhaenys would have to sharpen her spear as much as her mind to keep him safe.

Rhaenys turns back to her reading, flipping through the pages until she stops on mention of her father. Most people in Rhaenys’ life talks like her father is the best of men except for anyone from Dorne. Her mother doesn’t talk about what sort of man her father is other than to say not to adopt Dorne’s attitude towards him wholeheartedly, that they’d entitled to despise him but are far from unbiased. She sees him rarely and wants to see him even less, but she wonders what he was like before the rebellion changed him.

She reads, then frowns, then reads again, blood freezing in her veins.

“Aegon, what’s an annulment?”

“An invalidation of a marriage.”

“Who can grant one?”

“Depends,” says Aegon, “for smallfolk, probably any septon. For highborns? The High Septon only, but annulment law is so complicated. It’s also fairly political.” Rhaenys looks at him with increasing panic that Aegon doesn’t see, but he continues anyway, excited by the nuances of the topic. “There’s a finite amount of reasons to seek and receive an annulment, but the faith likes to be in good standing with the lords, by appearances at least. There’s at least three instances in recent history of a lord having no grounds to seek an annulment and receiving one anyway in exchange for services or donations to the faith.”

“Four,” mutters Rhaenys woodenly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Well,” says Aegon, giving her a strange look while Sam, always the more perceptive of the two, regards her with consideration and sympathy, “once the High Septon declares it so, then it is law and done regardless. Once it happens, reasons don’t matter, it’s done.”

“And the children? If they’re highborn?”

Aegon frowns and shrugs, “Depends. It has to be stipulated. One lord had them declared illegitimate. One kept them legitimized but removed them from the line of succession. The third agreed for them to remain in place so long the mother abandoned them to his and his new wife’s care. It depends, always.”

Rhaenys nods and feelings herself shaking as she stares in the book declaring the marriage between Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell annulled on grounds of infertility, little more than a footnote in the remarkable life of the pious, honorable high septon. Right beneath that is an equally unremarkable note about the marriage of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. She thinks for just a moment she understands her uncles a little better now. She too wants to rage, she wants to spit fire and draw blood, she just isn’t sure if that’s directed to the corrupt high septon, a long-dead northerner woman, or the man who’d sired her and discarded her and her mother and her country without even, it seems, a thought for them at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Rhaenys has learned not who Jon is but of her parents' annulled marriage. She's old enough to know what an annulment is but she wanted Aegon's diagnosis of what it meant for them. Obviously I can't research Westerosi annulment law, so I researched historical annulment law instead, which I mentioned earlier. A lot of it is political and entirely up to discretion of the church and the husband seeking an annulment at the time down to legitimacy and succession in cases of kings and nobles. Now it's generally not regarded the same way because that law is ridiculous and antiquated, but it's all politics people colluded to ensure they received what they wanted and favors.
> 
> It's not that Rhaenys doesn't think Aegon will be a good king, but I don't think I write well enough how smart Aegon is in this story. He's a genius, he's an innovator, he's a revolutionary thinker. It seems like an advantageous position to be in to enact change, but it's mostly just dangerous. The lords of Westeros have a lot of power, and when Jon and Aegon meet and have dragons/sibling bonding time the stakes will change, but right now, all Rhaenys sees is him being assassinated. He's also not politically saavy. It's not even that he doesn't enjoy court or intrigues or politicking, he's not good at it and doesn't want to be. Aegon is a problem-solver and a builder, he wants to fix the things that are broken. He doesn't want to do balls or tourneys or explain his reasonings at council meetings, and since he's not Joffrey the tyrant, it'll be difficult to enact that without pushback from the lords, which he will neither win nor have any desire to. He's a bit of an idealist, and Rhaenys major concern is that when faced with all the politicking in the reality of being a king and enacting changes, it will crush his spirit as it tends to do in people with big dreams and ideas in the face of cold hard reality. 
> 
> Aegon too is going to struggle with his perception of being a king. He looks at it genuinely as a duty to the people to improve their lives, but he's realistic enough to know that with the expectations and demands that come with the throne, it's not a position he wants. It's going to take some time to build his confidence. With how his personality is, I don't think he'd ever make a great, well-rounded king on his own, but he's not on his own, he has Rhaenys and eventually he'll have Jon, and once I finalize pairings that I want for all three siblings in addition to all their friends and extended family, they'll have a steady support system to build a strong, forward-thinking government. I've tentatively decided on Aegon and Jon, but Rhaenys I'm still having some trouble with. I thought Robb Stark, but I think from a character standpoint he would appreciate her strengths, and from a legal standpoint given the outstanding pact between the Starks and Targaryens, it would be cool, but I need Rhaenys in King's Landing not in Winterfell after everything's said and done so if anyone has thoughts and opinions on Rhaenys, I'd love to hear them.
> 
> I'm not exactly sure when the High Septon dies and his diary is brought to the Citadel (or really even how and why it ended up there at all) but in any case, this chapter is maybe a few weeks since Jon and company were in Old Valyria, which is a decade and long enough for the man to be dead, I think. Anyway, Fridays we finally have the birth of dragons.


	17. Benjen

Benjen never imagined he’d ever be happy to see Mantarys. After days on the road, a dangerous run-in with stonemen that caused the death of Denys, and a crossing into Oros that ended with severe burns over a large percent of Black’s skin, the sight of a city that won’t try to kill them or infect them with greyscale is a welcome relief, especially while trading off carrying Black’s dead weight on a makeshift stretcher. Jon drops the bags draped around him and collapses to the ground in relief. Duck and Benjen set down the stretcher while the former races forward while cheering and shouting, calling for the guards to open the gate.

They wait and they wait and they wait.

Jon leans back on his hands and looks to where Duck has ceased shouting for them to open the gates and instead curses.

“What’s wrong?” Black asks in a breathy demand, trying to crane his neck where he lays on the stretcher.

Jon looks him over and tuts, “Don’t irritate your wounds. It won’t be so easy to find the herbs to prevent infection here.”

Black huffs but relaxes back on the stretcher, gritting his teeth and staring up the sky with frustration. 

“They won’t open the gates,” reports Benjen.

Black curses, and Benjen completely understands, but he frowns instead.

Mantarys is not the friendliest of cities with secretive people, wary of outsiders and preferring not to offer more than a night’s sanctuary to any of those brave souls who dared to traverse the Demon Road. But they’d open the gates regardless, open the gates for anyone daring to travel north from Oros, surely, curious at the very least about where they’d come from. People in Oros don’t leave Oros, and most people stupid enough to make the trip to Old Valyria do so by boat.

No, there must be another reason they refuse to open the gate.

“Jon,” says Benjen.

Jon nods and unburdens himself from the tangle of bag straps. He sits cross-legged, eyes rolling back to reveal the whites. A bird soars overhead with a pointed caw and flies towards the city, circling and circling, and then Benjen sees an arrow fly through the air.

“Jon!”

His nephew comes to with a gasp.

The bird falls.

Duck shouts something and starts running.

“Dothraki,” says Jon just as Duck reaches them, skidding across the rocky road and clutching Benjen’s arms.

“We gotta go!”

“Leave me here,” orders Black.

The ground shakes, vibrations traveling even this far beneath the thundering hooves of the Dothraki horses all racing towards the city walls of Mantarys. It wouldn’t be enough to keep them out, not really, but Mantarys isn’t the sort of city the khalasars would often target for attack. He wondered who living behind those city walls angered the Dothraki enough to bring the rage of an entire khalasar down on a city that they’ll get nothing from by more slaves to serve the khal and his bloodriders. The dust kicks up, and Benjen can see the horses emerge from the clouds of dust, arakhs risen as they encircle the city walls.

Archers appear on the city walls and light their arrows, firing down at the Dothraki below.

“Leave me,” reiterates Black, grabbing Benjen’s hand.

“No,” answers Benjen, looking to Jon whose shaky and haggard, but he nods his agreement. They won’t leave Black behind to be murdered by Dothraki. Duck clenches his jaw and gives a single, firm nod of agreement. “Jon, get the bags, we gotta get him up. We got enough of the herbs to redress his burns?”

“Once more,” answers Jon, standing to pull on the bags. Benjen and Duck move forward to help Black up, arms thrown around their necks, theirs around his waist, abandoning the stretcher. Though he hisses and curses from the pain, Black grits his teeth and bears the pain. “They see us,” says Jon urgently.

“I’m sorry, Black.”

“I’ll bear it,” he grunts as they run.

Benjen can feel the heat of the horses bearing down on them, the bells from their hair chiming in the wind, and their calls echoing behind them. He looks down at their feet, kicking up dust as they struggle to make significant progress with Black’s weight between them. He doesn’t see Jon, and his heart stops, turning to see the boy huffing, bags falling off his narrow shoulders. He’s filling out fast beneath Arthur’s training and squiring for Harry Strickland and working the forge next to Gendry, but he’s still little more than a slip of boy.

“Drop the bags, Jon!”

Jon nods and tries to detangle himself, crouching down. Benjen’s heart stops in his chest when he sees one of the Dothraki pull ahead of the others, faster and faster. The Dothraki raise his arakh, and Jon’s eyes widen before he tucks his head and hunkers down.

“Jon!”

A dog races towards them, leaping jumping off Jon’s back, through the air. Its jaws catch the Dothraki’s wrist and knock him off the horse to the ground. Jon’s head peeks up, eyes going white, and the horse stalls only a moment before galloping towards them and coming to a stop, nostrils flaring and tail swishing angrily.

“Get him up,” says Benjen, keeping one eye on Jon as he helps Duck maneuver Black onto the horse. “Jon!” He warns unnecessarily, the two horses of the other Dothraki stopping one at a time. Benjen settles Black and nods at Duck, “Go with him.”

“Go where?”

“Away.”

“And you? The kid?”

“We’ll handle it,” says Benjen, helping Duck up into the saddle behind him before returning his attention to his nephew. 

Jon abandons all bags save one and draws two Valyrian steel daggers pilfered from the ruins of the Valyrian Targaryen holdfast. He stays low and brandishing them before darting forward and rolling to slash the legs of the horse, not enough to cripple them, but enough for them to drop forward and dump their riders. Benjen disarms the Dothraki in three strokes and stabs him through the chest while Jon takes more effort, abandoning the knives for the bastard sword Arthur helped him forge.

Benjen has a sudden appreciation for Arthur and Lyanna’s insistence Jon train with everyone from sellswords to Faceless men to exiled Dothraki to pirates. The Dothraki are fierce but graceless fighter, and Jon has been primarily trained by Westerosi knights. In ordinary circumstances, a boy his age would lose easily to the ferocity of a Dothraki, their unpredictable movements prevailing against fancy footwork and a fine form. Jon holds his own, though, taking more time than Benjen due in part to age and to how exhausted he is on top muscles not yet fully formed. It allows Benjen to turn his attention to third Dothraki whose wrist still has not been released no matter how hard he kicks the dog and pulls away until he throws away the arakh and pulls out a knife, face twisting into something ugly as he stabs it with a brutal thrust between the ribs over and over until it lets go.

Then he turns his attention on Jon.

Benjen runs forward.

The city pitches oil over the side, and the Dothraki fall back but not fast enough. A single flaming arrow heralds dozens of others, and the oil goes up in an crackling inferno, smoke rising the air, and screams raising the hairs on Benjen’s arms as burning horses race with shrill whinnies and the stench of burning human flesh filling his nostrils.

Jon feints and slips past the Dothraki’s guard, running him through with a brutal thrust and releasing his sword with a shocked look. Shaking, he looks up, eyes finding Benjen’s with horror and also uncertain pride.

His first kill, and Benjen can’t imagine a worse place.

The dog whines and struggles towards Jon. He looks down at it, eyebrows furrowing before horror darkens his expression.

“Aly?” Jon asks, through trembling lips.

“Jon!” Benjen warns as the Dothraki stalks towards him, focused amidst the chaos of the khalasar scattering from the fire raging and light the dry grasses of the sparse, semi-arid plain. So focused, spinning the knife so expertly, and stalking forward so light-footed that Benjen’s breath catches in realization that the Dothraki, is no Dothraki at all. “Jon, run!”

Jon looks up, wide-eyed.

“What do we say to death?”

It clicks.

The confusion lasts just long enough for Jon to spare one last look at the dog, eyes teary and smile grateful, before he turns and runs.

Benjen lunges towards the Faceless Man, but he dodges the sword to stab the dagger into Benjen’s abdomen. He stumbles forward and falls to his knees, breathing heavy and hands pressing around the knife still protruding from his abdomen.

The Faceless Man turns away from him without even a second glance and pursues Jon weaving through the racing horses.

The dog limps over to press against Benjen’s side, and he coughs, gritting his teeth and fighting through the pain. His chest heaves, and he grabs his sword and Jon’s dagger. His eyes meet the dog’s, big and mournful and gray like his nephew’s, his niece’s. It closes its eyes, whining in pain, eyes fading to brown before the last of its life leaves.

Benjen clenches his jaw and forces himself to his feet. He starts forward, pain-filled step after pain-filled step until one of the frightened, galloping Dothraki mounts reared to a stop in front of him, the whites of its eyes visible from its fear, fur damp with sweat. Benjen pats its neck and muffles his groan as he mounts, the knife still in his side digging in. Ashara told him never to pulls out something stabbed into his abdomen when he didn’t have the ability to put pressure on it, but he’s never wanted to pull something out so bad. He follows his wife’s advice and leave it, encouraging the horse into a brisk canter that sends pains through his body but not so bad as walking had.

He searches desperately for sight of Jon amid the chaos of burning flesh and horses aflame. The Dothraki have regrouped, climbing the walls of the city despite the wall of flame pinning them between the fire and the city wall, a rain of arrows falling down upon them.

Calling Jon’s name is a useless endeavor, but he calls it anyway, over and over again until his voice is hoarse, horse running over the land, leaping over bodies burnt too black to be recognizable, shriveled and charred.

The area is a cacophony of screams and shouts and crackling fire and tinkling bells. He hears his harsh, shallows breaths in his ears and feels the beat of his heart in his hands. He hears his own voice calling Jon’s name over and over.

The city gates open to release the city guard with a roar.

A horn blows, and at the epicenter of the chaos a dark-eyed, broad-chested khal with one of the longest braids Benjen’s eyes seen sits tall on his steed, sweat-soaked skin smeared with ash and eyes on the army racing out of the city gates with a war cry. Three bloodriders race the khal’s side, and Benjen sees them through the haze of the smoke, licking the salty sweat from his upper lip, fear coursing through his veins as he turns away from the regrouping khalasar, searching for his nephew despite the khalasar charging at his back.

When he finally spots his nephew, Benjen feels no relief.

Jon battles the Faceless Man desperately, dagger against daggers, fist against fist, grappling like drunkards in a back-alley brawl albeit with more skill, more efficiency, more brutality.

The Faceless Man fights to kill Jon.

Jon fights to stay alive.

There’s a desperation to Jon’s movements but his muscles ache, he’s tired, and he’s still just a boy.

Jon’s arm trembles where he blocks a stab of the Faceless Man’s dagger, but he battles back until his blade jams against the hilt of his opponent’s dagger. With a cruel grin, the Faceless Man sends the dagger flying from Jon’s hand and stabbing into the ground near enough to tempt but too far to reach. Jon sidesteps and dodges, conscious of how close he’s coming to the flame, coughing on the thick smoke spiraling in the air.

He can’t quite manage to avoid a particularly brutal slash that cuts through the strap of Jon’s bag and his shirt. Something clatters from the bag and onto the ground while Jon falls to the ground, pressing a hand to his bleeding cut before looking up at the Faceless Man towering over him.

“Jon!” Benjen shouts, tears streaming down his face, so close and yet still too far.

The Dothraki khal glances over at him and slows his horse a fraction, eyebrows furrowed and gaze swinging to where Jon stumbles backwards, flames licking at the skin of his back, and the strange oblong rocks he’s apparently been carrying around all the time. His blood drips onto the ground, and he stares up at the Faceless Man without a flicker of fear on his face. He looks down towards his hand, and the Faceless Man grabs his hair, dagger in hand as he pulls back.

Benjen hears his hoarse, broken voice calling his name again.

An arrow flies from the Dothraki charge and embeds itself into the Faceless Man’s shoulder. Benjen turns his head to see the khal, bow in hand, staring stone-faced and determined.

Jon’s arm moves to stab an arakh through the Faceless Mans’ abdomen.

As he falls, back to the ground, too near to the spreading flames, the city guard meets the khalasar, crashing into them.

Benjen thanks the old gods he’d grown up with Lyanna Stark as a sister, her absurd skill as an equestrian not trained into him as well but enough for him to make a decent cavalryman. The horse is sensitive enough to respond to his unspoken orders and press of his leg while he brandishes the sword and ignores the knife in his side, slashing away any of the guards aiming for he and his mount, desperate to reach the place where his nephew had fallen. The smoke burns his eyes and chokes his breath, tears and sweat coating his skin.

He calls for Jon and calls for Jon and calls for Jon.

And then a screech halts the battle. Inhuman and animalistic.

The city guard turn and step back, Dothraki lowering their weapons.

Only Benjen and the khal continue forward through the guards and Dothraki who’ve ceased fighting to stare in awe and fear, backing away in complete and utter agreement despite the raid upon the city and Mantarys’ overkill of a response.

When Benjen’s horse break through the innermost circle, he reins in his horse at first glance of his nephew, a cold horror rushing through him.

Jon stands at the edges of the fire, shirtless and wide-eyed, his sweat-soaked skin is streaked with ash and a large burn across his back is an angry red in color. His hair is singed at the edges and bare chest marred with blood that still dribbles from the shallow wound across his chest. A Faceless Man lays dead at his feet, and he holds an arakh dripping blood in his hand, but it’s not his haggard appear or the dead Faceless Man that’s stunned and horrified in equal measure.

Benjen stumbles from his horse, and Jon looks at him desperately.

“Uncle Benjen, what is this?”

“Jon?” The khal asks as his horse enters the epicenter of the chaos.

“Drogo?” Jon asks with surprise.

Benjen’s legs give, and he collapses to the ground, body burning from fever and eyes heavy from exhaustion and pain lancing through his body. He stares up at the red comet burning across the sky, the comet Old Nan once said heralds the birth of dragons. In his illness, Benjen’s capable of being amazed at the irony that she’s correct. The dragons have returned, three of them, birth from stone amid salt and smoke, by a boy born of ice and fire, who doesn’t knows nothing of where he comes from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we have dragons entirely accidentally because I feel like that's very fitting with Jon's background. Drogo already knows Jon from years ago. A couple chapters ago, Arthur mentions Jon fell into the river and ended up ill and pretty far downriver, he was healed in Khal Bharbo's khalasar, Drogo's father, shortly before the man's death, which I'm fairly certain plays with canon timeline a little, but not too much to do any real damage. So even though it's been a few years, Drogo remembers Jon. I also didn't think it was in any way realistic to have an 11 year old Jon capable of fighting off a Faceless Man after walking miles and miles over land after carrying most of their supplies so he got a little (a lot) of help. Who hired the Faceless Man won't be known its in entirety for some time, but it ties into a larger underground coup.
> 
> Set contextually, this war precipitates a fun way to help shroud a lot of information about these dragons. Mantarys being raided by Dothraki that know and have befriended Jon means it's less likely this story will travel far, fast, and with details. It'll definitely spread, but the people who really understand the nuances of this will be killed by Dothraki, no one inside Mantarys knows anything but secondhand accounts, and Dothraki don't seem the type who will spread detailed information of the incident. That being said, this moves up the comet several years, but I still don't expect the bulk of the canon drama to start until they're all a bit older. This is setting up groundwork for the political situation, because this story wasn't supposed to go on this long, but, you know, here we are. I like the mythology that comets equal the return of dragons, but even in this story it's symbolic of more than just Jon's physical dragons, which I don't want to go too much into detail with but I will say it's not the Faceless Man's life that pays for the dragon's return to life.
> 
> Aly's range for warging is phenomenal for the same reason Jon's such a strong warg: practice. She's on the move so she's way closer to Jon's location than Qarth, but she's still pretty far away. She's also been practicing since Jon disappeared on birds trying to find him. I've heard lots about warging and did some research, but I love playing with magic so it's definitely OC. I've characterized the ability more akin to a muscle that can be exercised as much as it's innate partially because I think that Westerosi attitudes towards things like warging and how it's been lost to time allow me just enough wiggle to room to stretch what's known in canon and allows me to question if that's the hard rule or if that's what has become standardized over time do to lost knowledge?
> 
> Also, fair warning, after chapter 30 this will probably be on hiatus for a while. I got a summer job in Alaska that's going to be time-consuming and labor intensive so I doubt I'll be able to write with the same frequency. Thank you everyone for all the suggestions about Rhaenys, I'm still not fixed on it, but at least now I've got more options to wade through.


	18. Aegon

“Have you ever dreamed of a life across the Narrow Sea?”

This is the sort of thing that makes Aegon sigh to himself and force a smile and thank the Seven his grandmother has no interest in spending time in the Red Keep. It’s selfish to be grateful for her absence after everything she’d endured here; he imagines this places haunts her with torments more visceral and heart-rending than Aegon’s bad memories of being forced to the practice yards and scolded by his father refusing to make an effort to become a warrior worthy of protecting the Seven Kingdoms.

_No scholar ever wants to become a warrior, but we must be prepared to do our duty to the people._

It’s one of the few times Aegon can remember his father giving explanation to his almost manic obsession to make Aegon a warrior. He doubts his sister has ever received an explanation for why their father despises her love of the sword and yet encourages Daenerys to pick one up if she so chooses. Jon Connington says it’s because swordplay isn’t proper for the daughter of a king, a princess, yet Daenerys has been betrothed to Aegon since almost the day of her birth, and if it’s not proper for the daughter of the king, it wouldn’t be proper for the Crown Princess by the same definition.

Aegon knows better than to say so.

Daenerys is no warrior, though, and not the sort of woman Aegon would ever want to take to wife. In part because she’s family, an aunt born of sibling incest, and his own extensive (and secretive) research into the ancestral lines and histories of families like the Targaryens that are prone to incestuous marriages between close kin suggests that the practice breeds physical deformities more rarely than mental deficits, most commonly madness. But also because of her personality.

His aunt is a pretty girl that will doubtlessly grow into a beautiful woman. He’s of an age where things ought to begin to stir at the thought of a pretty girl albeit not necessarily come to fruition or produce urges to act upon the daydreams, but he feels nothing for Daenerys aside from polite interest and a casual respect. She’s dreamy in a manner that reminds him of his father, always looking off into the distance but thinking of other things, but like every female in Aegon’s acquaintance, she has a core of steel that rears its head rarely yet cows all but his mother when it shows. Daenerys has no tolerance for disrespect, for injustice, for intolerance. She speaks with the smallfolk as much as the highborns, visits orphanages and tourneys, befriends courtesans and foreign magisters. She devours information about Essos and has a disdain for every foreign diplomat that enters court in company of slaves, holes up for hours in his mother’s solar to discuss domestic policy on foreign slavery within the Seven Kingdoms. She’s a dreamer, but she’s smart and sweet and driven by something Aegon understands not.

He also thinks she would eat him alive.

His aunt (his betrothed) may look like a woman made to sit on a throne in expensive Myrish lace gowns, a circlet atop her silver hair, and the world at her feet, but Aegon thinks she’s far more worldly than that. She dreams of distant shores and foreign languages and adventures. When she speaks of the heroes from stories and legend, it’s clear she doesn’t want a gallant knight that protects the people from injustice; she wants to be that gallant hero and better the world while having masses fall at her feet in adoration.

He supposes that between her mother and his, it’s only to be expected.

Except the lords of the Seven Kingdoms don’t love and adore their mothers, they pity them. They don’t see the strong, determined women who’ve become masters of their domain (and much of the Seven Kingdoms). They see a beautiful woman married to her brother against her wishes and tormented for decades before Jaime Lannister ended her suffering with a sword in her brother-husband’s back only to be exiled to Dragonstone by an ungrateful, controlling good-daughter. They see a frail woman of ill-health and infertility who’d been disgraced by a husband that preferred a northern she-wolf and fought a war in her name. Except the Queen Mother sits atop her castle on Dragonstone with a lover that commands a private military and the loyalty of every Targaryen loyalist in the Seven Kingdoms. Except the Queen has maintained peace and kept the Seven Kingdoms running since her husband’s coronation.

They see noble King Rhaegar, great father, improving husband, and strong king who still has time for his research on foreign shores for obscure prophecies not the women behind him ensuring that his messes and mistakes don’t bring harm to Westeros yet again.

“No,” says Aegon, “I don’t.”

Daenerys’ face falls.

She’s trying, he realizes, trying harder than him. But he can’t forget what he knows of Targaryen madness, he can’t force himself to care for what happens to people across the Narrow Sea, he can’t choose to have any desire for his pretty aunt. He can’t, and he won’t be sorry about it, won’t be sorry about worrying more for the lives and safety of smallfolk he has a duty to protect than slaves across the Narrow Sea that are the responsibility of Essosi citizens. It’s a horrible fate, but one he neither wants nor cares to obsess over. He can’t save the world, and it isn’t his responsibility. Westeros is.

“Have you been keeping up with your sword instruction?”

She’d have better luck asking about his research into one of a dozen topics.

“Have you?”

The words aren’t harsh, but she flinches nonetheless. And Aegon sighs. His eyes catch on Renly Baratheon’s lithe, toned figure outside the doorway, he motions for Aegon to come, and he turns away, dipping his head towards Daenerys.

“Apologies, princess, I must leave you now.”

“Yes, of course,” drawls Daenerys, turning away with obvious dismissal.

His mother watches him from across the room where she talks with Mace Tyrell over the pests plaguing the harvest of grain in the Reach. She catches his eyes and glances between him and Daenerys with a thunderous expression that has his stomach churning, guilty in the face of his mother’s disappointment. His mother has no concern with his lack of interest in marrying his aunt, in his outright disgust for the very idea of it and the dozens of historical evidences he possesses to support his comments about the consequences of incestuous relationships. She does take issue with him disrespecting Daenerys, as her kin, as her friend, as her betrothed.

He offers an apologetic smile before slipping out the door and bumping into Renly with stifled laughter.

“Flirting with Daenerys Targaryen, then?” Renly teases with a particular gleam in his eye that makes Aegon’s stomach flip the way a look from Daenerys ought to make him.

“She is my betrothed.”

“Should I have left you to it, then?”

Aegon shoots him a stern look and takes his hand, leading him through the maze of halls and down into the empty throne room. Renly enjoys the majesty of the throne room, gazing on the dragon skulls mounted to the columns and the sight of that ugly chair sat before the beautiful stained glass windows behind.

“How was your sojourn with Samwell Tarly?” Renly’s tone takes on a note of bitterness.

“Not jealous of Sam too?”

“How could I ever be jealous of that fat craven?”

Aegon jerks to a stop, blood cooling and face straight.

“Don’t call him that.”

“Fat or craven?” Renly laughs.

“Both. Either. He’s my closest friend, you know that, and I’ll not tolerate any disrespect towards him. Not even from you.”

Renly’s smirk widens, and he steps closer to Aegon. “Maybe I ought to be jealous. Your closest friend? I thought I was your closest friend. Or do you kiss all your friends behind the training yard?”

Aegon’s cheeks burn, and he rolls his eyes, ignoring the jibe to stand at the base of the throne. He stares up at it with pursed lips and a mulish expression. Renly comes up behind him and drapes himself across Aegon’s back.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“Ugly,” snorts Aegon in disagreement. “Shameful. An eternal image of the subjugation of the Seven Kingdoms for Aegon the Conqueror’s vanity. As shameful and selfish and narcissistic as taking not one but two of his sisters to wife and starting a kingdom-wide disdain for Dorne all because he couldn’t manage to steal their kingdom out from under them by threat of genocide by fire.”

“You take all the fun out of it, Egg,” huffs Renly, slipping away to trot up the steps and stand in front of the Iron Throne with a smirk on his lips. “Don’t you want to be king?”

No.

It’s a gut-deep, instinctual impulse. Aegon Targaryen has not a shred of desire in his body to be king. Aegon wants to help the realm, he wants to improve the lives of the smallfolk the way Bran the Builder left his mark on the architecture of the kingdom. Aegon wants to build up Westeros to the might and majesty of Valyria before the doom and create a world where the smallfolk have a chance to improve their circumstances and laws apply to highborns as much as smallfolk. He’ll need the throne to accomplish his laundry list of goals but actually sitting on the throne means he’d have to deal with petty lords and silly disagreements and horrid politicking. Sitting on the throne would be an impediment to his goals, a waste of valuable time that could be spent elsewhere do things to improve his kingdom.

“Or you don’t want to marry your lovely, lovely aunt,” teases Renly, loping down the steps towards Aegon.

“I’d rather not discuss my family,” sighs Aegon.

He wonders sometimes about his attraction to Renly Baratheon. He’s under no illusions that it’s anything but physical. Renly cuts a fine form, honed from years of swordplay yet lithe and slim. Aegon prefers him much more though when he’s training or flirting or riding beside him in the Kingswood; he ruins things quickly when he begins talking. Sam thought it because Renly isn’t intelligent enough to hold Aegon’s interest. His mind moves quick, jumping from topic to topic, always mulling something over or coming to realization or arriving at a new idea. Renly’s smarter than average, maybe, but nowhere near as smart as Aegon. He isn’t interested in almost anything Aegon is and doesn’t understand his motivations in the slightest. Renly is more interested in fashion and jousting and swordplay than improving the Seven Kingdoms, which is fine but of no interest to Aegon.

Sam is usually right, and Aegon knows his interest in Renly won’t last long after puberty breaks.

Much like his Uncle Oberyn, Aegon suspect he’ll not take sides when it comes to love. He admires Myrcella as much as Renly, Margaery as much as Loras, but his interest all of them never progresses much past the physical admiration. If Olenna Tyrell had been closer to his age, Aegon might have argued for her hand in marriage instead of Daenerys’, an exceptional mind on that woman, and though Margaery has come close to holding his interest longer than a ten-minute conversation, even she loses his interest quicker than Lady Olenna would like. She’s clever and quick-witted and interested in the plights of the smallfolk. She has also been so coached and coddled by the Queen of Thorns that Aegon constantly doubts how much is her own genuine concern and how much is Olenna’s tutelage in how to make people love her in a way akin to the adoration Daenerys engenders without near as much effort.

“I’m tired,” says Aegon.

“Egg,” argues Renly, alarmed at his sudden dispassion.

“It’s no problem between us,” promises Aegon with a gentle smile. “My travels have exhausted me more than I’d realized. Come break our fast with me tomorrow? In the garden?”

“Of course,” says Renly, recovering a soft smile and press of a kiss to the back of Aegon’s hand. “Shall I walk you to your chambers?”

“It’s not necessary,” promises Aegon. “I can find my own way, I hope.”

Renly’s laugh follows him from the room, and Aegon’s genial smile falls when he exits, walking through the hallways in the direction of his chambers, mind dismissing Renly the moment he’s out of sight.

His mind turns instead to his father, as it often does of late, after flipping the journal his sister had tried to hide from him that made her go strange and sad and retreat to the North with an air of acrid fury and broken defeat. His sister takes the annulment as a personal slight, and perhaps she ought to since their father had been so short-sighted not to make mention of their status at all, leaving them alone and unprotected if Lady Lyanna had lived, had contested his mother’s rights, had tried to maneuver her child for the throne. Aegon compartmentalized better, had long since been disillusioned and disenchanted with their noble, gallant, kind-hearted father, Prince Rhaegar the best of men as Barristan Selmy was so fond of saying while Jonathor and Lewyn rolled their eyes. This had all been undertaken for a prophecy.

It’s why their father wanted Rhaenys to be more ladylike and Aegon to be a warrior and Daenerys to be fierce. It’s why he’d once almost killed them trying to hatch a dragon egg and chased prophecy and sorcery around the world and seemed incapable of being a present king. If the Long Night descended tomorrow, Aegon may think him a decent king but preparing long-term and damning the consequences of present actions to yield future results is nothing to applaud.

The hair on the back of Aegon’s neck rises, and he pauses, turning behind him.

“Who’s there?” Aegon demands, eyes searching the darkness. He finds nothing and turns to continue forward when the air shifts behind him and a sharp pain wracks through his body. He coughs and looks down at the blood on his hand, dazed. His legs tremble, and he collapses to his knees, the onto the stone floor, his own warm blood pooling beneath him and eyes gazing out the window of a nearby balcony on the dark sky.

A strange feeling goes through him, body growing cold, and regretful of all the things he’d yet to accomplish.

_There’s Sam_ , he thinks. _Sam will try to see my dreams to fruition._

A shadow moves in his vision, hulking and carrying a torch. He shouts something, and footsteps echo in Aegon’s years and a broken shriek and sobbing.

Then there’s nothing…

A boy with dark hair and gray eyes and dragons.

His aunt wearing leathers in the shadow of a Meerenese pyramid.

His sister on the rocky, icy shore with tears in her dark eyes and calling his name.

A wolf snarling before a burning sun, strong and protective.

A wall of ice collapsing into petals of blue winters roses as a star falls in the sky.

Shadows of dragons over a field of snow and a little hand in his whispering

_Winter is coming_.

Aegon’s eyes snap open, gasping, and rolling onto his side with fear and disbelief. Hands reach for him, and he presses himself back against the wall, eyes wide and locking first on his mother, eyes red, cheeks tear-stained, but relief on her face where Uncle Lewyn holds her tight and pats her back. Daenerys smiles through her tears, hugged to Viserys’ side while he looks at Aegon with such a dark glare that he flinches back. Cersei Lannister, standing proud beside her ever blank-faced husband, Stannis, regards him with a look of polite disinterest.

It’s the drunkard Red Priest, Thoros of Myr, guest of Winterfell, crouched in front of him.

“I’m alive?”

“By the grace of R’hllor.”

His mother rolls her eyes behind Thoros’ back while Aegon lips his lips and considers the Red Priest quizzically, chest still heaving.

“How are you here?”

“Lord Stark received a letter some weeks ago…from your sister,” Aegon’s gaze snaps back to him while Elia’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Seems she had a dream about you, begged me to come to. Begged me to ask the Lord of Light’s favor for you. It seems the Lord of Light has need of you, my Prince, for the night is dark and full of terrors.”

His mother presses her lips together, hands clenched into fists he thinks is only partially because of the assassination. And in the window down the hallway, Aegon watches a red comet streak through the sky, a comet those in the North believe herald the rebirth of dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Aegon is just my tiniest little spud. I’m really happy with his characterization. He was almost always planned to be the death that paid for the birth of the dragons, which was why I needed Thoros in the north with the Starks instead of wandering Westeros getting drunk while Rhaenys managed to reach out for help after seeing a dragon dream of his death.
> 
> I realize that people are probably going to be a little upset about Aegon’s view of dealing with Essosi slavery in the current political climate. First, I come here for escapism so please try not to bring negativity that has nothing to do with anything literary into this forum. Second, Aegon is Westerosi, he’s crown prince, and he’s seen how his father’s obsession with things outside Westerosi politics have impacted the realm. He has focus on his realm and his people and has no intention to wage wars on foreign shores over people that are not his responsibility that would lead to endless war. I mean based on both the show and research about the book, Essosi slavery is an endless war and a political minefield from both sides, and that was only in three cities not the entire continent. Aegon’s, quite frankly, too smart to start a foreign war that has no end in sight.
> 
> I always intended for Aegon to be bisexual. I think it’s important to have representation and given Aegon’s position, I thought he’d be an interesting choice. He’s roughly 12, almost 13, a little over a year older than Jon so while he and Renly have kissed, I haven’t given much thought to their relationship beyond that because I don’t know much about when boys become sexually active. These are questions I choose not to ask. I have a tentative pairing in mind for Aegon, because Renly isn’t really his type intellectually and I actually like his and Loras’ relationship though I don’t necessarily like either of them as characters.


	19. Lyanna

Ashara was ever-fond of saying in a cheerful voice that every pregnancy is different. Lyanna’s first was untroubled, only plagued by morning sickness and a looming sense of dread. Her second was also without incident aside from frequent heat flashes and a bone-deep exhaustion she fought with everything in her. Her third more than made up the difference. She spent half the trip to Meeren throwing up over the side of the ship while Ashara and Arthur traded off holding back her hair and patting her back before helping her to the room the five of them shared below deck with Gendry and Alysanne.

News reached them in Meeren in the form of a forwarded letter from Qarth. Rolly Duckfield and Black Balaq had been stranded in Old Valyria with Jon, Benjen, and Denys. Denys died in an attack by stonemen and Black sustained injuries in Oros that left him and Duck in Tolos while he received treatment. When they’d reached Mantarys, they’d been caught up in a Dothraki siege on the city, and Benjen sent them away while he focused on Jon. Last they’d seen both had been alive, but it the midst of battle Ashara hadn’t been sure what use that was until Alysanne, pale, trembling, and strained had assured everyone in a thin, haunting voice Jon and Benjen were fine.

They remained in Meeren less than three days, allowing everyone some rest, or Lyanna more specifically since her violent illness this pregnancy seemed determined to make her attempts to find her son the most difficult and arduous journey of her life. Lyanna acquired horses, Ashara provisions, Arthur and Gendry arms, and one the morning of the third day, they left north for the Dothraki Sea through the Khyzai Pass through the mountains. Alysanne learned to ride on a spirited pony that she managed to control with preternatural speed Ashara informed everyone came from her ability to warg; that Jon had been teaching her so long that when the pony grew restless or headstrong, Alysanne’s instinctual reaction was to reach into its mind, see through its eyes, and calm the pony. Lyanna was both in a state of awe and envy over the skill, and Ashara agreed, how fascinating must it be to see into the eyes of an animal, feel its breaths and heartbeats and strength?

They brought just enough supplies to avoid Lhazar and aim straight for Vaes Dothrak. It was a risk considering the exacting amount of food they brought, but Arthur was confident that between him, Lyanna, Ashara, and Gendry, they could manage hunting if they absolutely had to. Still, each night they made camp, Arthur taught Alysanne and Gendry how to make small traps to catch rabbits and deer depending on where they were. Ashara showed Alysanne how to slingshot rocks and demonstrated that particular skill by hitting a small bird that wasn’t big enough for everyone to sup on, but Alysanne and Ashara plucked the feathers and prepared the bird diligently for their own dinner. Alysanne started her first archery lessons in the swaying grass sea in the morning before they left beneath Lyanna’s tutelage, and Arthur taught her how to wield a knife in the evenings after they made camp.

Lyanna got her childhood wish to live like a Dothraki in the midst of her pregnancy, and found, like most of her childhood wishes, the truth to be a terrible thing. She spent most days hunched over the saddle vomiting or slumped in the saddle trying to sleep, too hot in the days, too cold at night, her whole body aching and feeling in a constant state of itchiness. Ashara joked it to be the joys of pregnancy, and Arthur would smirk a little and ask if her dream was it was cracked up to be and race away with Alysanne at his heels when Lyanna through nuts and dried fruit at his head. She was irritable and emotional and uncomfortable in a way she hadn’t been through her other pregnancies and doing her best to manage it and not make everyone around her miserable.

Gendry told stories of his life in Flea Bottom with no father and a poor mother who’d done her best and died of sickness, of Tobho Mott finding him and a Red Priest who used to light his swords with wildfire and come in repeatedly for new ones until Tobho Mott started overcharging him on purpose, of learning to rework Valyrian steel and having a talent for it that had Tobho sending him to Aenar, the late blacksmith for the Golden Company, who taught him even more until he died. Arthur and Ashara traded off stories of Starfall, of life in Dorne, of playing in the water gardens and climbing the Red Mountains. Lyanna spoke of the North, of growing up with three brothers and learning for spar with sticks in the woods and the first time she rode a horse and had it bolt so far that she ended up closer to Deepwood Mott than Winterfell and had to walk the whole way home. Alysanne drank their stories, laying back on her horse with her eyes white and a smile on her face.

They weren’t far from Vaes Dothrak when they first spotted a merchant caravan who camped with them for the night and spoke of impossible things, the red comet they’d seen on the sea, the return of dragons. Arthur, Ashara, and Lyanna had traded looks and listened in silence while Alysanne perched on her father’s lap and watched with rapt attention, tossing scraps to the little cat that Lyanna realized followed them because it had bonded with her two warg children. They were even closer to the city when the came across the first khalasar. The khal had dragged them in front of him, asked for their names, and blanched when Alysanne had spoken in her lilting voice. He’d called her the wolfstar, Alysanne had smiled, and the cat had hissed. Minutes later they’d been released with apology, and Gendry patted Alysanne’s head while Arthur and Lyanna looked at her with new eyes.

Upon entry the dosh khaleen had asked to speak with Alysanne and returned her less than five minutes later while Arthur and Lyanna worried outside with permission to wait for their missing wolf and assurances he was coming.

Wait, they did.

Gendry took up the hobby of examining Dothraki weapons and ended up most frequently in their forge testing quality and metal to improve arakhs. Arthur sparred with anyone and everyone while Alysanne watched with rapt attention when she wasn’t running barefoot through the streets or splashing in the lake with the other children. Ashara had taken up tutelage beneath a Lharzarene godswife and maegi named Mirri Maz Duur traveling with Khal Ogo’s khalasar learning moonsinger birthing songs and Dothraki herbalism. Lyanna was pregnant, nearing the end of her pregnancy and spent most of her time in company of the secluded women of the Dosh Khaleen convinced she’d birth no more babes after this one; the widows laughed like they didn’t believe her and said she and her husband seemed too passionate for that.

“Don’t hold so long!” Arthur instructs Alysanne as he sits beside Lyanna at the edge of Vaes Dothrak to watch Gendry and Alysanne practice archery. Ashara has long abandoned them to follow Mirri Maz Duur, taken by her breadth of knowledge and willingness to share. “You and your brother both.”

“Papa, I no concentrate,” says Alysanne patiently.

“Can’t milady, can’t concentrate,” corrects Gendry with a cheeky smile.

Alysanne lowers her bow to glare at him. “Can’t. Concentrate. Gendry.”

“Apologies,” he teases back with Alysanne sighs.

“Your daughter has a savage disposition.”

“And why is she my daughter when she behaves so?”

“Because that’s when she is most like her mother,” replies Arthur, leaning his head against hers.

“Then this must be your son entirely. He gives me no rest and frequently beats me black and blue.”

“No one told you to take up the sword, my lady.” Lyanna glares at him, and Arthur laughs, pressing a kiss to the corner of her lips, one hand around her waist to hold her close while the other rests against her swollen stomach, eyes lighting at the kicking that feels featherlight on the outside unlike within. “So certain it’s a boy, then?”

“If a girl gives me this much trouble, I’ll never rest again.”

Arthur laughs, and Lyanna shakes her head and smiles.

“Do you think he’ll really come?”

“I have faith.”

“In what?” Lyanna asks in a whisper, committing his profile to memory.

“In Jon. In Benjen. In the way we raised him and the boy he is and the man he’ll become. Jon has been a survivor since the day he came into the world. I doubt he’s going to stop now.”

Arthur is right, of course, but it’s not until three weeks later when Lyanna waddles more often than walks and Arthur spends much of his days teaching young, unblooded Dothraki the finer points of the spear that Alysanne comes tearing through the street calling for her and Arthur. Their daughter stops in the doorway of the dosh khaleen’s home, cheeks rouged, hair windblown, and eyes alight with excitement.

“He’s here. He’s home.”

Arthur appears as their daughters runs off and helps Lyanna to the entrance of Vaes Dothrak. The streets are crowded, children and merchants and Dothraki alike clamoring for the entrance where they say the khal of khals, the great and undefeated Khal Drogo rides into the city with flying beasts of living flame soaring over his khalasar. Arthur and Lyanna exchange looks of confusion and move faster.

They spot Gendry stumbling out of the forge with two Dothraki smiths.

Ashara, arms linked with Mirri Maz Duur, slips into the street and meets their gazes with a hopeful smile before following the flow of the crowd forward.

Arthur shoulders through the crowd, hand in Lyanna’s and guiding her beneath the shadow of the rearing horses looming over the entrance to the city. Their daughter stands out front with her hand in Ashara’s, a cat at her feet, and a bird on her shoulder that is careful of not digging its talons into her with a display of masterful care that must come from her warging abilities not the bird.

The khalasar seems to stretch endlessly to the west, through the tall grasses of the Dothraki Season, and at its front, atop a shining chestnut stallion is the khal with the longest braid Lyanna had seen yet. He looks fierce enough until he turns his head and smiles, head thrown back in a booming laugh, and Lyanna’s gaze shift to the figure riding beside him, bronzed and slim and as topless as Drogo, black curls braided out of his face in a style that’s as much Valyrian as Dothraki. Her son has a vicious cut across his chest and muscles she’s certain hadn’t been so pronounced before and weapons in his boot, at his waist, and strapped to his arm. He looks like a Dothraki beside Drogo but laughs and smiles like the little boy she’d said goodbye to over half a year ago. At Jon’s side, Benjen too seems wounded from his time in Valyria but in good health despite the gruesome wound at his side, beard growing a little too long and hair flying free in the wind.

“Jonjon!” Alysanne calls.

Jon looks over and grins, nudging the horse into a full-speed gallop. When Drogo laughs, Lyanna can see the adolescent Dothraki who’d stood beside a slave and tended to her son years ago at the fork of the Noyne, the son of Khal Bharbo now a khal in his own right of a tremendous khalasar. Jon vaults off the horse’s back and pulls Alysanne into a crushing hug, pressing a kiss to her forehead and cupping her face in his hands.

“You saved my life, little sister.”

“I love you,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Jon,” chokes Lyanna, tears falling from her eyes. He stands looks at her, noting her swollen stomach with wide-eyes before throwing himself into her arms. She clutches him desperately, sobbing her relief into his braided curls. She holds him at arms length and examines him through her tears. “Gods, you’re becoming a man.”

“You don’t have to sound so upset about it,” says Arthur while Jon smiles sheepishly. Arthur pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, and Jon sags against him like he can finally pass someone else the weight on his shoulders. Arthur presses a kiss to his temple and tells him, “You did so well.”

Jon flushes and startles when Ashara shouts Benjen’s name and runs forward to meet him heedless of the twitchy bloodriders behind Khal Drogo of the thousands of horses marching towards them. Benjen laughs and reaches down to help her up onto the horse without either of them breaking stride. He presses a kiss to Ashara’s lips, long and deep and loving while Jon grimaces and Alysanne covers her eyes with a dramatic groan. Gendry tugs one of her braids.

“Where do you think you came from?”

“Babies come from kissing?” Alysanne gasps in horror.

“Lyanna,” says Arthur in a tight voice, grabbing her arm and jerking his chin upwards.

She stares dumbfounded at the impossible creatures soaring over the khalasar. They’re not much bigger than Jon and Alysanne’s cat, one black, one cream, and one red, but they’re unmistakably dragons that screech and descend on the wind to press against Jon’s legs and climb the fabric of his pants to perch on his shoulders and head, heads nuzzling his face and claws tugging at his braids.

“Ooh, dragons,” says Alysanne helpfully. “Mama, papa, my Jonjon has dragons.”

“Yes,” purrs Arthur thoughtfully, “we can see that, Aly.”

“I have dragons too?”

“I don’t think so,” says Arthur lightly, taking Jon’s newfound friends far better than Lyanna who suddenly can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t speak.

She’ll have to tell him. How can she not? How else is she to explain dragons? Arthur’s family may possess Old Valyrian blood somewhere far back in their ancient ancestry, but they were never descended from dragonlords. Jon will have questions, and he deserves to have answers. But however can Lyanna protect him now? First, his squiring to the Golden Company, then Blackfyre, and now three dragons. He’s not some bastard boy exiled in Essos that Westeros can ignore anymore. Now, if he chose to be, Jon is a threat.

A sharp pain goes through her, and she sucks in a harsh breath, hand moving to swollen belly.

“Lya?”

“Mama?” Jon and Aly ask.

“We need to move her! Now!” Mirri Maz Duur shouts while Benjen and Ashara hop from the horse and rush over. “Ashara!”

“I’ll go ahead and get everything ready.”

“No, no, it’s too early,” argues Lyanna as another pulse of pain rips through her.

“Early babes seems to be your fate,” quips Ashara before darting off.

“Maybe they’re all just as excitable as you,” says Arthur, throwing her arm around his neck while Benjen does the same on her left. Gendry stays with Jon and Alysanne, crowding parting to give Benjen and Arthur room to haul Lyanna behind Mirri Maz Duur. Kids behind them.

Lyanna grabs Arthur as he lays her in the bed, Mirri Maz Duur and Ashara fluttering around her while Benjen lingers in the doorway, unsure.

“Jon, he’s not safe.”

A strange look crosses Arthur’s face. “I think Jon’s safer right now than he’s ever been. Right now, you should just worry about yourself and this babe.”

Lyanna grits her teeth and nods as another contraction wracks through her. Neither Ashara nor Mirri Maz Duur tell him to leave, that the birthing bed is no place for man so Arthur stays by her side as she labors.

For hours.

Where Jon had taken almost fifteen hours to arrive, Alysanne had taken a mere three. Torrhen Dayne came into the world after eight and offered only a few cries before quieting. Arthur held the babe in arms and stared down with the same wide-eyed devotion he’d had for all Lyanna’s children, like he couldn’t believe the babe real, while Jon and Alysanne sat on either side of him and observed their baby brother in awe. Alysanne whispered she wanted a girl to Ashara, and Ashara whispered maybe next time while Lyanna gave her a dark look and Benjen laughed until Arthur passed Torrhen into his arms. Drogo swept in and greeted her kindly before saving Benjen by taking the babe, smiling down at him and calling him strong before passing him to Ashara. Three dragons curled at the foot of her bed with a calico cat between them, and it was the most surreal experience of her life and absolutely perfect until a week later when she worked up the nerve to hand Torrhen off to Arthur and pull Jon aside.

“Jon, my love, it’s time we had a talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was asked if Jon was going to have a Dothraki braid not too long ago, though I considered it, the ultimate answer is no. He’s deeply mired in Westerosi culture, especially since he’s an expatriate whose never seen his homeland that he can remember. Growing up surrounded by a mix of cultures is a great thing for social development, but I think growing up far from ones heritage yet being raised by people who embrace it creates its own longings. He isn’t Dothraki even though he’s friends with them, and I think it’s realistic that a boy his age would try and connect more with his lost Westerosi heritage even in something as simple as hair.
> 
> Part of why I love canon divergence is the opportunity to move characters around and allow them to meet people they wouldn’t ordinarily, how little moves can change a lot like Mirri Maz Duur and Drogo coming into contact this tiny way preventing Drogo’s eventual death. It’s little interactions that alter the course of people’s lives, and one of the greatest things about AU is how one change can have major ramifications.
> 
> I don’t know exact timelines for how long it would take to reach Vaes Dothrak from Mantarys despite the research I did. So Jon’s overall journey has taken the better part of a year, somewhere between 8-10 months overall making him 12 now and his sister 5, which is, in my opinion, beyond old enough for her to learn proper grammar even though she’s being stubborn.


	20. Rhaegar

Rhaegar Targaryen thinks himself chronically misunderstood. His mother thinks he doesn’t love his family. His queen thinks he doesn’t love his children. His lords think he doesn’t love his kingdom. Even his long-dead she-wolf thought he loved neither her nor their daughter. The truth is he loves them too much, so much that he’s terrified to lose them, so much that he hears the prophecy wringing in his ears and sees all of them dead, his children, his siblings, his people all dead and gone, slaves to eternal darkness, and he’s paralyzed by the thought they’ll not be prepared and die along with the rest of the world. He can’t rule and solve the mystery of the Long Night, find the answers to his prophecy, understand how things could have turned out so wrong.

_The dragon has three heads._

_Salt and smoke._

_Ice and fire._

It seemed so simple, if not him then his son, his children. He’d gotten his Rhaenys, then Aegon, and then his plan had fallen apart when the maester said Elia would never be able to bring his needed Visenya into the world. He’d been lost until he remembered the spirited girl he’d met in the north, who he’d been corresponding with on ancient legends of the First Men and the Age of Heroes and the Wall. Lady Lyanna with wolfsblood and a fiery disposition at odds with the ice in her heritage, and he couldn’t think of a better candidate to give him a Visenya. It didn’t hurt that he wanted her. Elia was the mother of his children, he respected her, heeded her council, and appreciated her grace and strength, but he burned for Lyanna, she stirred passions he hadn’t known himself to possess, and he knew no child of Lyanna’s could be anything but a warrior, male or female.

When he lost her and their daughter, everything seemed lost, impossible when he’d been so certain. Then his mother had brought Daenerys in the world, and he’d known all hope was not lost. If the promised prince, three heads of the dragon, came from the line of Rhaella and Aerys, that could include his mother’s daughter as much as Rhaegar’s children.

_Beware your own biases. Just because you think it so, doesn’t make it truth._

The Red Priestess, Melisandre, had told him this in Qarth just a few months ago when he’d stopped to seek wizards from the House of the Undying.

He feels himself on a precipice, gathering the pieces and unable to see the image they piece together from a bird’s eye view. He’s learned of White Walkers and wights from the histories of the North and the Night’s Watch, of the First Men’s preference for dragonglass weaponry and something about the properties of Valyrian steel. He’s found that White Walkers were sacrifices, not risen dead, though he’s not certain where these sacrifices have come from. He’s read of wildlings and theories of the prophecy and tried to understand the nature of sacrifice that created Lightbringer. But he feels demoralized all the same.

He has all the pieces yet they don’t fit.

Aegon is no warrior.

Rhaenys is no artistic lady.

Daenerys is no Visenya.

He has all the pieces yet everything is falling apart.

Volantis is his last stop, his last hope before home to the Red Keep where all he sees is walking dead men and people who are nothing like they ought to be.

Selfishly, he misses when Elia was his confidante, when they could sit together and talk, when she would tease out his problems and make sense of the parts that confused him and provided him with solutions he hadn’t dared to consider. After Harrenhall a great many things had changed, his impulsiveness had eroded a significant part of his marriage, the part founded upon trust and faith, but it wasn’t until the war ended and news of Lyanna Stark’s fate reached them that Elia withdrew completely. She remained the clever, capable woman he knew, but she’d grown colder, defiant, even belligerent. While he understood where her pain came from, he wanted her to understand what had driven him, the desperation to foil the Long Night, to bring the prophecy to fruition, to prepare the three heads of the dragon to defend the realms of men.

Why couldn’t she see that what he’d done had been necessary for their children, for their kingdom, for their survival? He may have been attracted to Lyanna Stark, but he’d not have acted on it if not for the need to have a third head, a warrior, a Visenya that had died with Lyanna.

“Watch!”

Rhaegar feels himself pushed aside, jostled from his thoughts by a boy no older than two and ten with gray eyes, black curls, and the look of the North. It’s a surprising thing to see in Volantis, though he supposes not so unusual, not with the Company of the Rose wandering throughout Essos, forever bitter about bending the knee to a Targaryen when they’d rather have died instead. It’s all very dramatic.

Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jonathor Darry place their hands on the hilts of their swords.

A dangerous look slides through the boy’s eyes, and he mirrors their motion.

But Rhaegar holds up a hand when a girl with the same eyes and ash brown hair pokes her head out from behind the boy with a bright, gap-toothed smile.

“You watch too,” the boy says, looking down at his sister who pokes out her bottom lip and shrugs.

“Hello there, are you from Westeros?”

The girl presses her lips together and shakes her head while her brother lifts her onto the back of a cart laden with a few trunks and crates, a blanket thrown over a rectangular box that Rhaegar can only assume is contraband goods.

“Our parents say not to speak to strangers,” says the boy.

“Do you know who—?” Jonathor starts while Rhaegar shakes his head and jerks his chin at the blade on the boy’s hip, live steel, and well-made too.

“Can you use that?”

“I hope so,” says the boy, “father worked hard enough to teach me.”

Rhaegar laughs while the little girl tugs her brother’s sleeve.

“Jon, I thought we weren’t supposed to speak to strangers.”

“We’re not,” says Jon.

“No?” Rhaegar asks in amusement. “Tell me, boy, have you heard rumors of dragons around Essos?”

Jon tilts his head while his sister pulls her cat into her lap and watches Rhaegar with a wolfish, predatory look whose familiarity he can’t quite place.

“Dragons?” The boy scoffs, shaking his head. “Have you been talking to the Red Priests? You shouldn’t listen to fanatics. If anyone has dragons, it’s the Golden Company, and they’ll have dragons when the Company of the Rose sails home to the North and the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, when Valyria rises again. Dragons.”

“I like dragons,” says the little girl.

“I do too,” says Rhaegar, and the girl’s dangerous look morphs into a smile.

_You can love every child except your own Rhaegar_.

He hears Elia’s voice as clearly as if she’s standing beside him and scolding him for his distant and exacting parenting.

Then, for the first time in years, he hears Arthur’s.

“What did we say about strangers?”

“Jon says we weren’t talking to him,” volunteers the girl, smirking at her brother while Rhaegar’s heart freezes in his chest.

_Impossible. Impossible._

“Then Jon needs to spend more time in lessons with Aunt Ashara.”

At the mention of Arthur’s beloved sister, Rhaegar closes his eyes and turns, afraid to hope too much that it’s true. But when he opens his eyes to the shocked, stricken face, there is no mistaking him for anyone other than Ser Arthur Dayne. He’s a little older, broader and marred by new scars, a newborn with his olive skin, dark hair, and Arthur’s purple eyes cradled in his arms. His hair is longer that Rhaegar’s used to seeing and half pulled back from his face, but with Dawn on his hip and shock on his face, it’s undoubtedly Arthur.

“Arthur,” breathes Rhaegar, too happy at knowing his closest friend lives to be angry at Arthur, Ashara, the Daynes, or even Elia—because Elia undoubtedly knows. “You’re alive.”

“I am.”

Ser Barristan and Ser Jonathor stare at him with cold disapproval.

“You’re a farther,” realizes Rhaegar belatedly, taken aback by the babe he cradles in his arms expertly.

“Jon, take the cart, go find your mother.” Jon’s eyebrows draw together, looking between them, but instead of protesting, he nods dutifully and asks if Arthur wants them to take the baby. Arthur says no, and Jon hops down, tugging the horse and cart through the crowd towards the harbor. “Your Grace,” says Arthur when they’ve gone.

“You betrayed your vows,” says Ser Barristan.

Arthur clenches his jaw and tightens his hold on his son, offering neither explanations nor apology.

“Your son’s quite old,” says Rhaegar, working through everything. “Why didn’t you just come to me if you were in love? I understood better than most. I would have released you from your vows.”

“I don’t want to talk about that time, Rhaegar.”

Rhaegar stiffens, then deflates. “You don’t. Elia doesn’t. I thought you understood, Arthur.”

“Understood what?” Arthur snaps, startling Rhaegar. He’s not unused to Arthur voicing disagreement. He’s voiced disagreement when he began writing to Lyanna and even louder when he chose to ride to Winterfell and run away with her. _Princes and kings have mistresses, but this, Rhaegar, this is madness_. But the only time he’d ever come close to snapping at Rhaegar was when he learned of the annulment, of the marriage, and he’d seethed in anger and demanded if Rhaegar understood the consequences of what he was doing.

_I’m saving my realm and my family from the darkness._

Arthur had huffed, clenched his jaw, and nodded without another word, hadn’t acknowledged Rhaegar or Lyanna the entire trip to Dorne or after, not until he’d protested being ordered to stay at the Tower of Joy rather than come to the Trident with Rhaegar.

The baby whines, and Arthur exhales through his nose, relaxing.

“I know you didn’t like Lyanna—”

“It was never about Lyanna,” says Arthur in a perfectly measured tone, careful not to disturb the baby that tugs his hair and rubs a palm on the stubbles of his cheeks, cooing. Rhaegar can feel the heat of anger and indignation creeping up his neck, condemnation from his closest friend sending a pang through him. “You were our prince, a husband and a father. Elia was my princess before she was the Seven Kingdoms’, my friend before I was yours. Asking me to take part in shaming her—whatever your reasons—was insensitive and thoughtless. Abandoning Elia in King’s Landing while you ran off, got remarried, and hid in Dorne to play house with your lover while the realm descended in war was reckless and disgraceful. She had no protection, and you left three Kingsguard in the middle of Dorne to guard your pregnant secret wife that no one except the Starks were looking for in the last place anyone would think you’d take her.”

“She and the kids were supposed to go to Dragonstone,” argues Rhaegar in increasing frustration.

“Everyone knew he wouldn’t let her go. Aerys was mad not stupid. He knew what you were doing, and Elia was a hostage. And you didn’t care. You prioritized the preservation of your prophecy over the safety and dignity of your wife and children. I may have been complicit, and Lyanna may have agreed. But you were our prince and the authority, and you destroyed everyone who loved you trying to create the circumstances for a prophecy you don’t understand.”

“I love Elia. She’s the mother of my children, my queen.” Arthur curls his lips and shakes his head. “She was your friend, your princess, but I have a destiny, a duty to the realms to guard us all against the Long Night.” Arthur inhales slowly and squeezing his eyes shut, baby slapping his open palm against his nose. Rhaegar feels the outrage welling. He comes to Essos to speak with people who understands him rather than his bitter wife and disillusioned council, and it hurts that the joy of finding Arthur is tempered by the sting of his censure, his lack of understanding, his scorn. “I did Elia wrong, but I did it for the right reasons, I did it for my family and my people. I understand I put you in an unfavorable position, and I apologize for it.”

“But you’re not sorry? Not to me or Elia or Lyanna or the Starks or your children or, Seven help me, Robert Baratheon? He would not have been a good husband or father, but he wasn’t a horrible man.”

“He would have caged Lyanna, he would have broken her spirit,” argues Rhaegar stubbornly certain of this. A strange look crosses Arthur’s face, but he doesn’t back down. “I did love her. She was untamable and wild and beautiful in her defiance, the perfect mother for a warrior-queen, my Visenya. I regret their deaths everyday. I loved her,” says Rhaegar insistently, “I did.”

“You didn’t. You couldn’t. Not her. Not Elia. Not your children. You loved the idea of her, of Elia, of what they could give you to fulfill your goals. But you didn’t love them, didn’t respect them. You say Robert Baratheon would have broken her spirit, but what of you? What was to happen after if everything went according to plan? Lyanna was never going to be a queen, she was barely a lady. Dorne wouldn’t have tolerated it. Tywin Lannister would have protested until he was blue in the face. What you have kept Elia in the Red Keep as queen? Shamed her by keeping Lyanna as your uncrowned wife while Elia ruled your kingdom while you pursued prophecy? Would you have caged her in King’s Landing, despised by everyone until she resented you as much as herself? I love the mother of my children, and I couldn’t imagine doing half the things to her that you did to Lyanna, even at our worst.”

“I’d no idea you’d grown so fond of Lyanna,” says Rhaegar bitterly, choking on the questions he wants to ask about her and the babe and her last moments and if he had really broken the she-wolf of Winterfell with his thoughtlessness. He didn’t enjoy the game, Rhaegar could freely admit that, and he’s been so close to everything coming together that he’d rushed forward heedless of the consequences.

“You took me North to be witness to that madness. You left me at the tower instead of taking me to the Trident. You abandoned your pregnant wife of five-and-ten for months with only Kingsguard as company while she suffered through her first pregnancy alone and scared and regretful and ashamed. So, yes, after months being her only friend and standing at her bedside as she brought your child into this world, yes Lyanna and I are close.” The baby stirs at Arthur’s raised voice, and he hushes the boy, stroking a finger of his pudgy cheek.

“Careful,” warns Barristan, “you speak to your king.”

“I live in Essos,” replies Arthur coolly, inclining his head, “and my family is waiting for me. By your leave, your Grace.”

But he doesn’t wait for Rhaegar’s leave, he turns and leaves the way his kids had gone.

In a state of shock, Rhaegar stands amid the chaos of Volantis, shattered, and wondered how his life had fallen into such a stage of disarray.

The people believed him a great if absent king, because of Elia’s policies and Jon Connington’s spin. The small council believed him a visionary because of Jon Connington’s tales and Elia’s spin. The lords of Westeros believed him not as mad as his father nor a tyrant by any stretch because of Elia alone.

His family knew him best, and they despised him.

Viserys had spent too long learning at their father’s knee and thought Rhaegar weak and ineffectual and Elia unfortunately Dornish and overreaching for a woman. He believed himself the last dragon, the only Targaryen male left alive worthy of the title of king and capable of restoring House Targaryen to greatness with fire and blood.

His mother had warned him about chasing prophecy blindly, of what her father’s belief in prophecy had cost her. Had warned him about courting Lady Lyanna and stealing her away. Had warned him about not looking far enough in the future at the consequences of his actions. And then one day, she’d stopped warning him, stepped on Elia’s toes with the delicacy of woman who understood how to press buttons, and retreated to Dragonstone with her lover and Rhaegar’s sister.

His sister knows him too little outside the man who’d betrothed her to her disinterested nephew and pushes her to lift a sword she doesn’t want.

His son knows him too much as the man who cares little for his preferences or personality, pushing both an unwanted sword and unwanted bride on him.

His daughter remembers him as a doting father but sees him as a hard, dismissive king, disrespectful of her proud Dornish heritage, berating of her beloved mother, chastising to her ingenious brother, loving who he’d like each other them to be rather than appreciative of who they are. She resents him just as well for becoming a king and a man obsessed with prophecy rather than the gentle, princely family-man he’d been before the infertility, before Lyanna, before the rebellion.

Then there was Elia. Elia whom he’d dishonored. Elia whom he’d disgraced. Elia whom he’d abandoned and disrespected and set aside. Elia who ruled his kingdom, his household, his family. Elia who was clever and kind and beautiful and resilient who he couldn’t bring himself to love the way she deserved or even acknowledge with the respect she’d earned ten times over. In a hundred lifetimes, Rhaegar could not pay back the debt he owed Elia Martell, and yet even as he thought it, all he regretted was not having his Visenya alive, all the pieces of his prophecy together, his goals and plans and dreams clear and in perfect order to prepare to fight the darkness.

_…she suffered through her first pregnancy…_

_Lyanna and I are close._

Rhaegar turns and starts forward in a brisk walk that becomes a steady jog that becomes a full on run. He hears Barristan and Jonathor calling out behind him, but he pays them no mind as he pushes through the crowd and races across the port searching the crowd for Arthur or the kids or that Dothraki-horse drawn wagon.

He finds the wagon being loaded by slaves while one of the granddaughter ruling triarch, Malaquo Maegyr, straddles the Dothraki horse bareback and chatters with a slave at her side, hands gesticulating wildly and expression pleasant. The gangway onto the ship has been pulled up while lines are thrown and sails raised as they prepare to vacate the slip.

He sees Arthur on deck talking to Ser Jorah Mormont—exiled he remembers Elia telling him and married to Lynesse Hightower, which is where Rhaegar had met the northman—babe still in arms, the little girl perched on his shoulders, and the eldest son, Jon, talking animatedly to a boy resembling Robert Baratheon. A woman with short dark hair and generous curves shimmies down from the crow’s nest, taking the baby with a broad smile. She kisses the baby, then leans up to meet her daughter for one, then stands on her tiptoes to press a soft kiss to Arthur’s lips, and then the very much still alive Lyanna Stark, smacks a wet kiss to the boy’s cheek, her eldest son, her firstborn.

Rhaegar’s third.

Prince Jon Targaryen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Rhaegar was tough to write because he’s a little bit crazy. Once I let myself fall into that crazy and consider what would I do if I was a fanatic that believed wholeheartedly that myself and my children were meant to save the world, this came out. Because for all his faults, Rhaegar really believes this is his purpose, that he’s contributing to the survival of mankind. Everything he does is guided by this purpose.
> 
> I don’t think he loves Lyanna, but I think he feels he needs to justify behavior other people see as shameful and disgraceful by making himself believe he loved her. It was a little creepy to write that he was attracted to her, but I think it’s realistic that he probably was but attraction has nothing to do with love and that attraction was compounded by his belief that her warrior spirit would make her a perfect mother for his third child, his warrior princess Visenya.
> 
> I don’t particularly enjoy writing borderline crazy characters, but I love these shades of gray. The world isn‘t black and white, people aren’t just good or bad. Rhaegar’s selfish and a little mad and kind of dick, but he’s not necessarily a terrible nor was Robert Baratheon, as Arthur points out. They are who they are, molded by their life and experiences and expectations. Rhaegar doesn’t feel bad about what he’s done because he’s certain that his reasons for doing so are justified, he’s merely regretful about the result.
> 
> I considered never allowing him and Jon to meet, but I think it’s important for both Jon and his siblings and even Elia to see how they interact. Jon now knows Rhaegar Targaryen is his father, but even during this scene, he’s just a name and a far flung figure. They’re never introduced son Jon doesn’t recognize him as Rhaegar Targaryen, king of Westeros. But I fully believe wounds can’t heal unless we address the hurts that caused them. Jon, Elia, Aegon, Rhaenys, even Arthur can’t heal while still haunted by what-ifs and possibilities. It’s not all going to be addressed, because that’s life but I want them to start healing by forcing Rhaegar to address his mistakes even if he never fully owns up to them. The only person Rhaegar will never speak to again is Lyanna because I feel it would neither be healthy nor accomplish anything. Rhaegar doesn’t regret or apologize for his choices, and Lyanna doesn’t have to deal with him like Elia does politically so she’ll choose not to deal with him at all.


	21. Rhaenys

She had strange dreams of late of people she didn’t know, lands she’s never seen, and things that hadn’t yet happened.

She dreamt of fleet and storms, a ship overturning in the night and a boy clinging to a board for his survival.

She dreamt of a land with ruins and rivers of lava and men that looked like stones, of a manse bearing the sigil of her house and a topless tower with a fountain of lava and a brazier of stone dragon eggs.

She dreamt of dragons flying above a Dothraki khalasar and boy covered in burns amid smoke and salt while dragons climbed from blood-soaked eggs and a disembodied voice saying only death can pay for life and her brother laying dying in a puddle of his own blood that muddle-minded Red Priest, Thoros, uttering a prayer to the Light of Light, flame flickering beside him that brought him back.

Those were the normal dreams.

A letter went to Lord Eddard Stark asking for Thoros to go to King’s Landing with all due haste on a hunch and a hope that the dreams were not but dreams.

Then she kept dreaming.

Arriving on Bear Island only made the dreams stranger.

She dreamt of wolves the size of ponies running together through the woods, hunting together as one pack while dragons circled overhead, not hunting but watching, wary and protective.

She dreamt of a boy in a heavy fur cloak with a white wolf on one side and a black dragon on the other, Blackfyre at his waist. The figures on either side of him indistinct but feminine, one of light hair and the other dark, a white dragon and a red beside them, a light haired figure with two others and three men with hair-kissed by fire staring out across the field.

She dreamt of a raven with three eyes and figure in a broken tower falling and a boy with sandy brown hair watching her with a girl of short curly hair and spear guarding him at his side.

She dreamt of Samwell Tarly and Aegon and a muscular boy with short dark hair talking excitedly with a man who wielded the sword of Dawn.

She dreamt of Arianne and the Sand Snakes fighting beside people draped in heavy gray and white furs, boisterous and fierce and charging forward in flickering firelight.

She dreamt of a castle she’d never been to, a girl riding a horse with wild abandon and dancing around a weirwood, holding hands with a little boy with the look of the North but the coloring of the Dornish.

She dreamt of her father dying in his bed, gray and shriveled, and calling the name of the woman who’d shamed her mother, of a woman with short hair and fearless ferocity firing flaming arrows from the crow’s nest of a ship while her mother stood at the woman’s side, grim-faced and regal still.

She dreamt and she dreamt and she planned, stringing together what little she understood.

At the center of it all was Winterfell, was her and Aegon and the solemn, quick-witted boy she’d met years ago in Volantis, Jon. Her mother and a woman she’d never seen and a knight that ought to be dead. Were wolves and dragons and wights.

It all sounded too much like one of her father’s mad bout of prophecy and obsession.

Better to ignore it, she thought.

Rhaenys trained with Maege Mormont’s fierce daughters and learned the old stories of the North and fought of wildling raids from farther north still. She dreamed every night and woke up groggy and disoriented. Sometimes she saw Daenerys standing unburnt amidst flickering flames, dragon curled around her shoulders, city at her feet. Sometimes, she saw Aegon hunched over plans or lying in pools of blood or kissing a boy as pretty as a girl with a sharp tongue and wicked smile and fierce swordarm. Sometimes she saw a frail old man walking through the snow and drawing a lithe Valyrian steel blade from the roots of an ancient tree while a raven with three eyes watched. Sometimes she saw a pack of wolves with a trio of dragons beneath a burning sun rising as stars fall in an inky black sky.

But always she saw.

Things changed like this:

First, a letter came from King’s Landing that her baby brother had been ambushed and stabbed by a catspaw, died on the floor of the hall in a pool of his own blood, and been resurrected by the drunken Red Priest haunting Winterfell’s halls who had been sent by Lord Eddard Stark, heeding Rhaenys request.

She stewed in impotent rage and hacked away at Dacey, Alysane, and Lyra Mormont in the training yard and spent her evenings balled up crying on her bed, biting the meat of her thumb to stifle her sobs.

Second, she received a letter from Arianne stating that Oberyn discovered the catspaws’ dagger had been an expensive piece of Valyrian steel taken off Rodrik Greyjoy during the Greyjoy Rebellion. That Oberyn and Doran were convinced Lord Eddard Stark had arranged a catspaw to murder the heir to the throne to put his nephew by Lyanna Stark on the throne in Aegon’s place. That Arianne and Elia both agreed the explanation too neat, too simple and very unlike Eddard Stark who’d documented and handed over every item plundered of any value to the Iron Throne as a gesture of goodwill.

Arianne had become contrary and far too much like their Uncle Oberyn for Rhaenys’ comfort since discovering her father wanted to replace in her in the line of with her younger brother, Quentyn. She was angry and rebelling and out to prove herself the ultimate Dornish woman, fierce, dangerous, and seductive, much more than the flat-chested, chubby little girl had had been; that she was strong like her Aunt Elia and dangerous like her Uncle Oberyn and a warrior-queen like Nymeria of old. And if she thought her uncle’s anger and fears was blinding him to the truth, then Rhaenys believed her absolutely.

Third, Meera Reed arrived, unaccompanied and spear in hand.

She arrived at the Mormont Keep on foot and crashed a sparing session by defeating Lyra Mormont with a few twirls of her spear and turned to Rhaenys who’d gaped at her before requesting a spar.

Rhaenys had a few years on Meera and, assuredly, more experience having trained with the Red Viper of Dorne, the Sand Snakes, and the Mormonts. She’d been taught the sword by the Kingsguard. Surely she could take wiry young Meera Reed in a spar with ease.

She had defeated her, but it hadn’t been with ease.

Meera fought like a woman possessed, half Mormont ferocity and half wildling savagery, lips curled back and bared in a snarl. She moved so fast that she was naught but a blur, swift and agile and dangerous. She had unexpected strength for such a small, slip of a girl, and she never seemed to run out of energy, resilient and determined. In the end, it had been luck rather than skill that ended with Rhaenys victorious, Rhaenys with her hands on her knees breathing heavily, lungs burning and flushed while Meera leaned against her spear and stared down at her.

_You’re no Rhaenys Targaryen._

She felt her shoulders sag in defeat, wincing and ever-reminded of her father who’d expected a sweet-tempered, artistic girl like the favorite wife of Aegon the Conqueror. An excellent dragonlord but not much by way of a warrior, and Rhaenys was about as much a sweet, artistic soul as she was a dragonlord.

_With baby brothers like ours, it’s better to be a Visenya. The world needs men that create and women who can protect as much as the other way around. He needs you to defend him as Jojen needs me. You’re not ready to face the threat that comes, but you will be._

To say Meera was not impressed by Rhaenys was an understatement.

She’d grown used to her father’s disappointment, her mother’s acceptance, and her uncle and cousins’ approval. In Dorne, Rhaenys was a fierce warrior princess, the pride of Dorne and a credit to her house.

In the North, beneath the tutelage of House Mormont and Meera Reed, she was a pampered southern princess that could swing a sword fine and a spear better, who could negotiate with foreign diplomats and play the game as well as veterans like Olenna Tyrell and Tywin Lannister. What she could not do was survive in the harsh north. Without servants and staff, Rhaenys couldn’t function. She couldn’t feed herself or earn money or light a fire, and Meera was insistent she would need to know these things in order to defend her brother properly.

They spent hours in the training yard running drill after drill after drill, not fighting in formation but fighting like wildlings and improving her accuracy throwing spears and shooting arrows. They spent days in the woods pitching camp and learning to light fires. Meera taught her how to track animals through the woods and set traps for smaller prey and catch fresh fish in lakes and streams. She skinned and plucked and cooked what she caught over a fire and learned which herbs were poisonous and which were medicinal and which were good seasoning. She learned to wash clothes in rivers and make spears from sticks with only a knife.

When Rhaenys thought herself learned, Meera took her into town to haggle prices for furs with local merchants and sell meat caught to the butcher. Maege Mormont gave her a fraction of her allowance and sent her on a trip from Bear Island to Deepwood Mott with only Meera and Lyra as company and offered no itinerary and no assistance aside from advice to manage her money well. They spent most of the coin for passage across the Bay of Ice and left little for stay at inns or meals at roadside taverns so they hunted together for meals and camped in the forest off the road and sold meat and furs from whatever they caught when they needed the extra coin.

Lord Glover sent them to run supplies to Shadow Tower along the Wall with only three of his own men including his heir Robett and left Rhaenys in charge of provisioning, enough to keep everyone fed, not enough to slow the caravan down, and on a stricter budget than Rhaenys had ever been on in her life.

The men at the wall watched her, Lyra, and Meera with dangerous, lustful gleams in their eyes so they bunked together and took turns having a watch of their own only to be woken in the early morning with two blows of the horn and leapt from bed, weapons in hand, to beat back a small group of wildlings all to set out again at first light for Deepwood Mott.

It was exhausting and rewarding.

And, again, Rhaenys dreamed of an endless field of snow and ice, gray stone walls in ruins and a steep stony hill, and a man with blue eyes and frown skin standing on a field of dead Night Watch rangers. She saw an army of dead men and an army of wildlings and an army of men led by two indistinct women and a man, dragons flying overhead and wolves ghosting between the legs of the army.

Every morning since Meera’s arrival, Rhaenys awakes with Meera sitting cross-legged on an upholstered stool at her bedside with a cup of tea in hand and patience.

“My brother has them,” says Meera one day weeks after they’d known each other. Rhaenys frowns in confusion while Meera shrugs on shoulder. “He’s of the North, of the Neck, and here we call them greendreams. Only those with the blood of the First Men have greendreams.”

“My blood is of the Rhoynar, of Old Valyria,” says Rhaenys.

“You have the blood of the dragon, the blood of Valyria, the blood of Daenys the Dreamer who saved her family—your family—and the last of the dragonlords with her dragon dreams.”

Rhaenys looks over at Meera in shock, blowing on the cup of steaming tea Meera gives her.

“I can’t save anyone, not myself and not my brother. I see too much all the time. I’m tired all the time like I’m living these dreams, like I’m awake, like I haven’t slept at all. I see too many faces without names and hear nothing decipherable and visit places I’ve never been to. I see too much and not enough and understand nothing.”

“Yes,” agrees Meera, “and he can teach you, but you’re not ready. There’s still more to learn.”

Rhaenys drops her head back and groans, “What more?”

“People.”

“I know enough about people,” scoffs Rhaenys.

Meera smiles and tilts her head. “You know about your people. You know what your people have taught you and told you and raised you to believe. But people are more than one thing and every story has another side. There are things you must understand before I will bring to Jojen, to your brother, to the prince that was promised.”

Rhaenys looks at her sharply. “What did you just say?”

“Your father is wrong about a great many things, but winter is coming and with it the long night. You will wield the sword of your ancestor to guard the realms of men beside those of your blood and those who are not but remain kin nonetheless. There is more to a family than blood, and that is what you must learn before we go to our brothers and begin the journey to become the shield that guards the realms of men.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such a weird chapter because as much as I like the idea of seers, I don’t actually enjoy writing them, especially when, like Rhaenys is here, they’re so inexperienced handling their visions. She’s exhausted not only from the grueling physical training and raids she’s enduring on Bear Island but also from the dragon dreams, especially when she realized her dream about Aegon actually happened. It’s a huge burden to bear, and she’s doing her best.
> 
> It was important for me that Rhaenys learn a lot about the North, particularly the idea of found family. She’s got a lot of family she’s loyal to, but I think it’s important she learn that family goes beyond blood and circumstances, especially because she’ll eventually encounter Jon and Lyanna. It’s fair that she’s angry, but it helps if her whole world hasn’t been so focused on a single worldview and perspective adopted from the south and the Martells in particular if not Elia directly. It was also important she learn a different kind of strength. It’s one thing be a good warrior and be capable of fighting, but at the end of the day, she’s a princess and not even a male from the royal family would be capable of surviving off nothing out in world. The biggest thing they’re helping her learn is street smarts. How to survive when she has nothing but herself to rely on. Elia knows Jon is returning and wants her impulsive and proud daughter to have a circle of friends outside her family that can help her adjust to a changing world in a way her cousins would find difficult.
> 
> This was around the time I solidified plans for Arianne and made her a bigger part of the story. I did a lot of research and found out that she didn’t consider herself a pretty child but gradually grew into her beauty and that Doran told Quentyn he’d lead Dorne because he intended for Arianne to marry Viserys (I believe it was Viserys, I can’t entirely remember), but she thought he was trying to usurp her. Doran’s pretty ambitious here. He had goals that led to his relationship with Arianne becoming so damaged and as a result she’s closer with Oberyn and Elia. But despite how impulsive she seems from research, she also seems calculating and smart enough to think before reacting, unlike Oberyn, especially since she’s more approving and therefore more aware of the ties her aunt has been building with the north.


	22. Chapter 22

To say Lady Catelyn Stark was surprised by the announcement of visitors to Winterfell would be a massive understatement. In the many years since she’d married Lord Eddard Stark, she’d birthed five children, fallen in love with her husband, and hadn’t left the north once. In all that time, their only visitors had been House Stark’s bannermen, the exiled Red Priest, and Lady Ashara Dayne, the woman her late betrothed had a bastard with and her husband had loved. Learning the guest in question would be the silver prince, the young dragon, Prince Aegon Targaryen had brightened Catelyn’s outlook considerably.

She’d spent weeks preparing for the prince’s arrival, a late fostering for his age but welcome nonetheless. For Ned, this was likely and opportunity to mend the rift between House Stark and House Martell, between the North and Dorne, but for Catelyn, it was an opportunity to make her daughter a queen.

Every lord in Westeros knew Prince Aegon and Princess Daenerys had no interest in being wed just as every lord knew Elia had protested the betrothal thirteen years ago when King Rhaegar decided upon it, had been shopping around for prospective brides ever since. He’d met the frontrunners already to no avail: Myrcella Baratheon, Margaery Tyrell, Arianne Martell.

Why not her beautiful Sansa?

Of course, it’s not Prince Aegon who arrives first but a strange Braavosi man who introduces him as Syrio Forel, former First Sword of the Sealord and master of the water dance. He’d arrived in company of Lord Manderly, his second son, Wendel, and both his granddaughters, Wynafred and Wylla, both whom Lord Manderly has made an extraordinary effort to push onto Robb. Syrio, it seems, had come by order of Ned and recommendation of a person Syrio Forel refuses to name in order to train Arya in the art of Braavosi water dancing in direct opposition to Catelyn’s fervent wishes for Arya to focus less on become as fierce as a wildling and more on becoming a proper lady.

Ned is not to be swayed, and Syrio Forel is welcomed into the household to Arya’s delight and Catelyn’s consternation.

Along with Syrio Forel came a slim sword as small as her little Arya that the girl named Needle and took to carrying everywhere with her. The workmanship was incredible, and that, too, neither Syrio nor Ned offered explanation from whence it came.

A couple weeks later, the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms finally arrived at Winterfell in company of Thoros of Myr, Catelyn’s dear uncle Ser Brynden Tully, and Sandor Clegane along with several soldiers from the Neck and Lord Howland Reed’s youngest child, Jojen Reed, who stands beside Prince Aegon and peers at everything around him with thoughtful calculation. Prince Aegon doesn’t look at the Stark family gathered in the courtyard awaiting his arrival. He cuts an impressive, regal figure with his Old Valyrian bone structure, silver hair tied back, and bright purple eyes that examine Winterfell with wide-eyed wonder.

The Kingsguard stand on either side of the wheelhouse door behind him, the Blackfish offering his favorite niece a brief nod of acknowledgment, while Jojen nudges Aegon with his hand.

The crown prince startles and looks over the children with knowing eyes, scanning each of them from head to toe, starting from Bran at the end to Arya to Sansa, and then Robb without even a flicker of interest like they’d met his expectations, no more and no less. His gaze softens when it lands on young Rickon half-hidden behind Catelyn’s skirts, then blinks at Catelyn and Ned.

“Lord Stark.”

“Your Grace, Winterfell is yours.”

“I certainly hope not,” retorts Prince Aegon with a strange half-smile. “I know so little about the north, I fear I’d run it into the ground. However, if you’d permit to give me your library, I’d be quite satisfied with that. I hear it has the largest and oldest books in the North outside the Citadel’s stolen collection.”

Ned’s lips curve into a smile as he inclines his head.

“We’ve heard your Grace is a great lover of the written word,” offers Catelyn.

Prince Aegon’s eyes flit to her, and he cocks his head. “I imagine everyone has. I’m certainly more inclined to an awful book than a fantastic sword. It’s been the king’s great goal to return Blackfyre to the family, for me to wield it in battle, but I’d sooner wave my quill in my own protection than the ancestral sword of my house, whether we were in possession of it or not. You’ll not find me on the training yard any time soon.” He pauses and looks at Arya with a soft smile. “Unlike you, I’d wager, Lady Arya.”

“I’m not a lady,” growls Arya while Catelyn stiffens at the disrespect.

Neither of the Kingsguards look bothered nor does Jojen Reed.

Prince Aegon laughs. “You’re always a lady as my sister is always a princess. Just because you wield a sword and can defend as any knight or warrior can, it doesn’t make you any less a lady. I see no reason why you can’t be both like my sister, like Jojen’s.”

Jojen smiles and inclines his head, looking years younger with the smile upon his lips.

Arya grins wider than anything Catelyn has seen in years, and Prince Aegon smiles back before look at Bran, then Jojen, then focusing on Sansa. He presses a kiss to the back of her hand and calls her my lady while she blushes, then nods to Robb with an offhanded comment about the great things he’s heard of his honor and swordsmanship.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Lady Catelyn, rumors of your beauty have not been exaggerated.” Catelyn inclines her head, accepting the words as her due and pictures her beautiful daughter standing beside this handsome dragon prince. He stops in front of Ned, and the smile grows warm and almost relieved. “My mother has encouraged me to ask a great deal of questions of you. I’m quite taken by your kingdom’s history and infrastructure and preparations for winter and food preservation and…”

Ned laughs and claps a fatherly hand on his shoulder, as though he’s just an ordinary son of his bannermen and not the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Catelyn shoots her husband a dark look that is ignored, but she needn’t have worried. Prince Aegon smiles shyly up at him, looking absurdly grateful for the treatment beneath his station.

“I see the queen’s praise of your intelligence has not been exaggerated. My solar is yours, and you’re more than welcome to ask what you will, sit on Robb’s lessons on the governance of Winterfell and the North if you so choose. Think of Winterfell as your home while you’re here. I’m certain we could all benefit from your intelligence,” he shoots a meaningful look at their youngest children while Sansa stars with wide-eyed adoration at the pretty young prince.

Prince Aegon laughs, “I’m certain I can find ways to drag your youngest back to their studies. Not all lessons are sums and rote histories, dry as the parchment they’re printed upon.”

As a guest, Prince Aegon is perfectly pleasant and the utmost gentleman, frustratingly so. He attends Robb’s lessons and excels within days. He watches Arya practice water dancing with Syrio Forel while reading on the Kings of Winter taken from Winterfell’s extensive library, peppering Syrio with questions about Braavos’ foundation and government and trade while Arya listened and learned with diligence. He spent one day watching Bran climb every surface in Winterfell, then received a letter from Bear Island that left him secluded in the library, then the blacksmith until he re-emerged with some sort of harness and hooks to help Bran climb higher and faster and safer. He told Rickon stories and spent hours talking with Ned in the solar and spoke politely with Catelyn and Sansa, but he seemed almost bored.

Prince Aegon’s mind worked faster than Catelyn could comprehend, always working, always moving, always thinking. He asked questions Catelyn had never considered and spent hours caught up in his own head with only Ned, Arya, Bran, and Jojen capable of drawing him out. He seemed not to know how to speak with Sansa or how to jape with Robb. He preferred Arya’s wildness, Bran’s adventurousness, Jojen’s quiet wisdom, even Old Nan’s stories.

She felt her dream of her sweet Sansa as a queen dying before her eyes at the introverted, genius prince’s distant way of dealing with her and Sansa and Robb.

Then the other guests arrive.

On a temperate evening, a caravan ambles down the road from the south and stops outside the gate without notice. A servant fetches Catelyn on order of her husband, and by the time she arrives in the courtyard, her children have already been sent for, arriving in dirty breeches and muddy boots and disheveled. Prince Aegon is noticeably absent, but Ned waves off her questions as Jojen ambles out onto the balcony to observe from above.

Ashara Dayne is helped down first by Ned’s little brother, Benjen, tanned and scarred from his time as a sellsword in Essos. Ashara offers him a sultry smile before nodding her head at Catelyn and greeting Ned with a broad smile and a hug that’s followed by Benjen. Catelyn’s attention is riveted on the rest of the cart’s occupants, a boy Robb’s age with a head of long, dark curls braided back, hopping out of the cart and helping down a little girl Arya’s age with a Dornish complexion, the gray eyes of the Starks, and ash blonde hair, and then a little boy nearer to Rickon’s age with the same complexion as his sister but brown curls and purple eyes. A second woman with pale skin and short dark hair with gray eyes and a slim figure is helped down by an unmistakable Dornish man with silver hair and purple eyes.

Lady Lyanna Stark.

Ser Arthur Dayne.

The latter nods to Ned as he swings the smallest boy into his arms and takes the girl’s hand, tugging her to his side with a sweet smile she returns. He looks to the boy that Catelyn has a sneaking suspicion is not his son at all with a small smile and nod of encouragement. The boy slips closer, half hidden behind Ser Arthur’s broad shoulders, and Catelyn spies Robb studying this boy with interest absent when he looks at the crown prince, the sword at his hip and muscles beginning to develop more in line with Robb’s interest than Prince Aegon’s books and plans.

Catelyn’s heart pounds in her chest as long-standing members of Winterfell’s household rush forward to welcome Benjen and Lyanna and even Ashara with hugs and kisses and tears.

Ned won’t meet her eyes as he introduces her officially to his sister the Lady Lyanna Stark, scourge of the realm and seductress extraordinaire, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, oathbreaker and disavowed Kingsguard, and their bastard children, Jon whose family name is skipped over without fanfare, Alysanne and Torrhen, who look more northern than Catelyn’s own children even with their Dornish coloring and who carry the name Dayne as though they’ve been granted permission. Perhaps they even have considering the legendary sword at Ser Arthur’s waist that was said to have been returned to Starfall with his bones.

Robb, Bran, and Arya stare at Ser Arthur in wide-eyed amazement, cradling a baby with familiarity and letting his daughter hang from his arm like a monkey and not a highborn lady, bastard or not.

As Old Nan and Ser Rodrik Cassel volunteer to show the family to their rooms, Robb darting to Jon’s side while Arya attaches herself to Lyanna and Alysanne while Bran stares up at Ser Arthur with wonder and Sansa greets Ashara with warm familiarity, Catelyn presses her lips together and glares at her husband.

Ned dips his head and guides Catelyn away from Winterfell to the Godswood. He sits at the base of the heart tree and looks up at her, patient and silence.

A thousand questions run through her mind.

How many people know? She can answer that one herself mostly: Howland Reed, the Daynes, Benjen, probably that Ser Davos he worked with out of White Harbor, maybe even Queen Elia who’s sent her son of four and ten to a kingdom Dorne despises to a House her brothers would rather burn down mere weeks before the arrival of Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard.

How long has he known? At least as long as the end of the rebellion. He’d erected a statue of his darling sister yet had refused to bury the bones of the babe with her. It hadn’t been her child, she realized now, and Catelyn cursed herself for not inquiring further, for not even considering the bones of the babe had ended up in Brandon’s casket, if the stillborn babe belongs to woman who’d spent months studying in Winterfell’s halls.

Did the king know? No, he couldn’t have. Rhaegar was a great deal of things including a mediocre parent at the very least if not an outright disinterested one. He would have scoured the world, though, to bring the boy home to King’s Landing, desperate as he is for Targaryen blood and prophetic children, even knowing the boy would be in danger from Oberyn and Doran, even knowing the conspiracies he’d be at the center of, knowingly or unknowingly, even knowing trapping the boy in King’s Landing as a Blackfyre could lead to yet another rebellion.

Instead, Catelyn settles for asking: “Why did you never tell me?”

“I didn’t know you, Cat,” says Ned.

“Maybe not then,” hisses Cat in outrage, “but did you still not know my character after Thoros was sent here, after the Greyjoy Rebellion, after I birthed you five children? When will you know me, Ned? Or will you ever? Do you know how this secret could jeopardize our children?”

Ned looks up at her with a small half-smile upon his lips.

“And that is the real reason why, Catelyn.” She frowns in confusion, stopping herself from verbalizing the arguments that instantly spring to her lips, better this once to wait for Ned. “You are a wonderful mother. You love our children with your whole heart. You would do anything for them, and if you thought, for even a moment, that Lyanna’s secret might endanger them, you would do what you must to protect your children, even at cost to Lyanna’s.”

“Is that what you think of me?” Catelyn demands, more hurt than angered at her husband’s opinion of her.

“It’s selfish, Cat, but I understand you. I don’t fault you for it. If you knew Lyanna, I have little doubt you’d have protected her secrets. Family, duty, honor, they aren’t just words to you, but Lyanna is an idea to you, not family, her children bastards, a shame in the eyes of the Seven. What’s a bastard’s life for our children’s?” Catelyn shakes her head but doesn’t know what to say to that. Is it a crime to love and value your children over anyone else’s? She’d not even put the crown prince before her children? Ned’s smile is sad. “I know you, Cat. I love you, and you love our children. But if Prince Oberyn came riding to Winterfell and threatened our children if you didn’t give up Lyanna’s, I know what you would choose. I love you for it, but I also couldn’t trust you with this.”

Shaking, Catelyn lowers herself to sit beside him. He takes her hand in his, and they sit together silently. He rubs his thumb against the back of her hand, and she leans against her husband, still stewing in the betrayal of this long-kept secret but also reluctantly understanding of his reasons. She can’t apologize for putting her children before anything, and she appreciates that Ned isn’t asking her to.

“The queen?”

“She wants the children to be siblings, get along at the very least.”

“Neither Prince Aegon nor Jon seem the type to sow enmity. Princess Rhaenys will be the major concern.” Ned hums in agreement. “What are we to do, Ned?”

“Watch and wait,” says Ned, “something’s coming, Cat, I’m not sure what but we need to be ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Catelyn Stark, but I’ll start off with: she’s ambitious enough to have wanted Sansa on the throne even knowing Cersei was dangerous, Robert a bad king, and Joffrey of questionable character. As for Sansa, I personally loved her character development, but where she was at the start of the series is not who Aegon is looking for in a partner. He’s smart, he’s lived under Rhaegar’s dreamscape prophecies, he doesn’t want to marry someone naïve and short-sighted. Sansa isn’t for him. Maybe if this was post-Joffrey/Littlefinger Sansa I’d be more onboard, but right now it’s a hard no.
> 
> As for Catelyn, I think she’s a good mother despite not being supportive of Arya and putting aside the way she treated Jon in canon. But I think there’s a good reason Ned never told even after years of marriage. Catelyn’s children come first, over everything. And I understand. I have a mother who’d burn the world for her children, but it makes her a wild card that you just don’t tell secrets to. The one thing you can trust with Catelyn is that she’ll prioritize her kids over everyone else, even her own good-sister, even the crown prince, especially because she’s brash and sometimes acts without thinking of the consequences.
> 
> Needle is a gift like Syrio Forel’s lessons are. Lyanna recommended Syrio and Jon was helped by Gendry to make this sword for his fierce little cousin because Needle is one of my favorite moments in the show, Jon’s acknowledgement of who Arya is and that the sword helps her survive so much.
> 
> A bunch of people asked to see Jon and Lyanna’s conversation about his heritage, but I actually never wrote it. Jon may have had his world turned upside down, but he’s also incredibly close to his family. I focused more on his reaction to meeting Rhaegar and Elia for the first time instead because up until that moment Rhaegar is just an idea. Even meeting Aegon isn’t really going to connect because the one thing Jon’s always been good at is loving his siblings. It’s not until Rhaegar intrudes into his bubble that his worldview shifts and he’s forced to acknowledge what his mother’s told him and who he is.
> 
> Anyway next chapter is not Aegon meeting Jon. It’s Rhaegar’s homecoming in King’s Landing.


	23. Elia

Oberyn arrives before Rhaegar by mere days, accompanied by Arianne and Quentyn, yet none of his own children which worries Elia more than the thunderous expression on his face. Quentyn makes straight for Daenerys, another attempt to woo the silver-haired dragon princess unsuccessfully and even less likely now that she’s in King’s Landing surrounding by Ser Bonifer’s hundred meeting with Pentoshi and Myrish magisters and Volantene triarchs and Red Priests and Bearded Priests on the matter of slavery. The smallfolk adore her, and Ser Bonifer and his hundred had raised the girl among their ranks.

Quentyn doesn’t stand a chance.

Elia spares a single look at Oberyn’s face before sighing and leading him and Arianne into the solar she’d stolen out from beneath Rhaegar, the painting of Daeron the Young Dragon replaced with one of Daenerys Targaryen on the eve of her wedding to Maron Martell.

Arianne pours herself a cup of wine and drapes herself in the chair, popping grapes into her mouth. Her dark eyes shift between Elia and Oberyn with expectation that isn’t disappointed.

“You said not to worry about it, to leave the boy and his mother and that disgrace of a Kingsguard alone in Essos.” Elia accepts the goblet of wine Arianne pours for her, eyes glimmering in amusement as she watches her uncle. “But he went and squired for Harry Strickland in the Golden Company and made friends with a Dothraki khal and—”

“He’s a boy,” sighs Arianne in argument while Elia glances between them, curious about Arianne’s part in all this. “An accomplished one but still just a boy, no more or less accomplished than Rhaenys or I except he is a boy and we are just women.”

“He’s in Winterfell with your son, the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And two Kingsguard,” adds Arianne.

“You think Sandor Clegane and Brynden Tully can defeat the Sword of the Morning?”

“You think the Sword of the Morning plans on assassinating my child?” Elia challenges with genuine interest, wondering about the depth of her brother’s absurdity. Even Arianne looks amused. While she understands that the paranoia is rooted in concern for her, for her children; she can’t help but stare at him in bewilderment.

“I didn’t think he’d help Rhaegar set you aside and run away with the Stark girl! I didn’t think he’d fake his death and abandon you and your children and his king for Essos! I didn’t think he’d start having children with her, yet he did all those things!”

“Arthur’s married?” Arianne asks with surprise.

“No,” says Elia dismissively, “Lyanna’s married still, technically.”

“Ah, well, then, have you considered taking a prince consort, aunt? I have several men I could recommend.”

Elia stifles a laugh while Oberyn looks between them in shock.

“You ought to be more concerned about this, Elia. This is a threat to your children, your legacy.”

“The Iron Throne is a curse,” states Elia coolly. Arianne pops a grape in her mouth and looks at Oberyn with droll disinterest. “I’d rather have taken my children to Sunspear and raised them as proper and happy children without the pressure of prophecy or expectation of excellence and let Rhaegar figure out how he’d produce perfect Valyrian children for his three-headed dragon. That choice was taken from me, so I’ll not worry about unimportant matters.”

“Unimportant?”

Elia turns to Arianne and runs her gaze over her niece. Gone is the sweet, insecure girl she’d been in childhood and the confident, beautiful princess she’d been years ago. Something had happened that changed her to this woman Elia loved but barely recognized, calculating, manipulative, but with a core of strength and sense of justice that closer resembled the girl she’d been. Nothing could get through to Arianne, and she provided no answers to why she’d become so angry with her father, so distant from her nuclear family, and such a pervasive player in a game Elia had warned her many times never to start playing.

“He survived an attack by a Faceless Man.”

“When?”

“The same day Aegon was resurrected by Thoros of Myr.”

“You can’t know that,” scoffs Oberyn, quieting when Elia gives him a quelling look.

“Spies report that a red comet was seen streaking through the sky.” Elia’s eyebrows raise as her gaze moves between Oberyn and Arianne. The latter slants her uncle a sly look and says, “They say he has dragons.”

“Impossible,” says Oberyn.

“I agree,” answers Elia, though not for the same reasons as Oberyn. “The boy’s in Winterfell. If he had dragons someone would have seen. With Aegon’s interest, he would have written me about them.”

“Maybe he’s being smart and trying to take what’s his by right.”

Elia gives her brother a dark look, not liking that sort of talk, not even when both her kids were absent the Red Keep.

“No,” snorts Arianne, “Egg would never covet something of someone else’s, even dragons.” She pauses and tilts her head with a smile on her lips and a thoughtful gleam in her eye. “He would beg to study them though.”

A knock at the door preceded it opening, Lewyn entering with wide eyes and tousled hair.

“The king approaches, niece.”

Oberyn clenches his jaw while Elia nods, giving him a stern, dismissive look. He leaves the room, still fuming and even more enraged knowing Rhaegar is charging here after spending more than a year traversing the known world for answers to questions he’s already asked a thousand times and keeps asking to receive answers he prefers. Arianne watches him go, then stands to leave, but Elia shakes her head and meets her niece’s eyes.

“I want to go north.”

“To kill Jon? To protect Aegon? To conspire with Rhaenys? Why?”

Arianne opens her mouth and shakes her head, pressing her lips together. She hesitates, then pulls a letter from her sleeve, the broken Targaryen seal raising Elia’s eyebrows.

“Rhaenys said I must.”

Elia considers Doran’s anger for a moment before nodding in permission.

They both look to the door when it’s shoved open by Rhaegar, face dark and expression thunderous. Hovering behind him is a Red Priestess, beautiful and deadly and fanatical, helping Rhaegar feed his obsessions. She crosses her arms and glares at her husband while Arianne offer a curtsy that’s deep enough to be polite but shallow enough to be dismissive.

Rhaegar spares Arianne not a glance as she sweeps out the door, closing it behind her and leaving Elia and Rhaegar alone in the solar with only a Red Priestess and the replaced painting of Daenerys and Maron Martell for company. She has an inkling what’s caused this much emotion from the usually taciturn and brooding Rhaegar Targaryen, but she sits and sips her wine and waits for him to speak.

He sits, eyes cold, while the Red Priestess stands behind his chair.

“Where are the children?”

“I’ve seen Aegon to Winterfell to foster with the Starks, and Rhaenys to Bear Island to foster relations with the northern houses.”

“And Daenerys?”

“In town, I believe, meeting a representative for the Prince of Pentos over the rights of slaves in the free cities on the western coast of Essos.”

“What does Daenerys know of slavery?”

“Apparently a great deal,” remarks Elia dispassionately. “Surely this isn’t what you’ve come to speak about?”

“Did you know?”

“Please explain.”

“About the boy.”

“Rhaegar,” sighs Elia with frustration.

“Lyanna’s boy. Lyanna’s son. My son.”

“Arthur’s son,” corrects Elia while Rhaegar’s face burns in rage. “What do you know of that boy, Rhaegar? What do you know of _yours_? You know Jon as well as Aegon except you weren’t there to try and mold him to your expectations at the expense of his self-confidence and welfare. Ser Arthur Dayne raised that boy.”

“Because they took him from me! Hid him from me! And you helped them! Am I such a monster that I’ve no right to know my own son? To know my flesh and blood lived somewhere out there, alone and isolated from his family.” 

Rhaegar looks wounded genuinely, like the idea of having to his child from him pains him as much as the idea of Arthur raising him in Rhaegar’s place. Except Rhaegar has raised none of his children, he’s coached them, instructed them, treated with them, but he’s never raised a single child. And that he only sees how _he’s_ been deprived and not the danger of his son’s life if he’d been raised in Westeros, let alone in the Red Keep, keeps Elia unapologetic. He still doesn’t see the affect his actions have on anyone but himself.

“What would you have done with Jon?”

“What would you?” Rhaegar fires back.

“Kept him alive. Kept him safe and secret in Essos. He grew up freer than my children, better protected and with a better father.” The word drops like a stone between them. Despite everything, Elia is better than intentionally poking at Rhaegar’s wounds, true or not. She doesn’t know much about Arthur’s parenting, but she knows Rhaegar’s and can’t imagine Arthur would do the things Rhaegar’s done, put his children at risk for such shallow reasons. “I would have ensured that I could protect at least one child from your obsession with prophecy.”

“I was wrong, Elia, I was blind. You and Lyanna and Arthur and Eddard conspired to keep me blind, but I see now.”

Elia heaves a long-suffering sigh, rubbing her forehead and wishing she could ride north with Arianne and leave this viper’s nest behind along with the man who even now insists he’s right even in his wrongness.

“Jon Targaryen is the prince that was promised,” says the Red Priestess.

Elia looks between Rhaegar and the Red Priestess, then laughs in a way that sounds much like a broken sob. She covers her mouth and shakes her head, feeling her eyes prickle with traitorous tears.

“When will you stop, Rhaegar? When does it end? You were certain it was you. Then you were certain it was Aegon. Then you were certain it has to be three. Then you were certain Jon had to be a Visenya. Then you were sure it was Daenerys. Now you’re certain it’s Jon. What will be, will be. Prophecy comes to fruition when foolish men make it so, and you are that man, Rhaegar. Your sons almost died, both of them. A Faceless Man tried to kill Jon, and a catspaw _did_ kill Aegon. Right here. In these halls.”

Rhaegar gapes, a stricken look crossing his face.

“Aegon’s dead?” He shakes his head, dazed and horrified. The genuine devastation on his face takes Elia aback. He hadn’t expected it from Rhaegar, the horror and defeat and grief. “Why didn’t you write to me?”

“He lives,” says Elia, both Rhaegar and the Red Priestess’s gaze snapping to her. “The Red Priest Thoros brought him back. Rhaenys sent him to us. She had a dream. She had a dream Arianne needed to go north. She had a dream of Jon’s return. She’s had so many dreams.”

“Rhaenys has dragon dreams?” Rhaegar asks in shock.

“Someone is pitting this family against each other, playing with their lives, playing Dorne and the North off each other, while I’m trying to build us up together.” Rhaegar presses his lips together, tight and fearful, but listening for the first time since Aegon had been brought into the world, and his mind became occupied wholly by prophecy. “I know you want to go to Jon and know him. I know you want to go to Aegon and protect him. I know you want to go to Rhaenys and ask her questions. You see prophecy, but you need to see the danger. Your sons nearly died, and we don’t know how or why or who else is at risk. We can never go back to where we were, but this is about family. Jon and Aegon are safe in Winterfell. Rhaenys is safe on Bear Island. Daenerys and Rhaella are safe with the Hundred. And Seven know Viserys has friends to protect him. I need you here to help figure this out before another child dies. Family, this family, your family, has to come first or the next time a Targaryen dies, it might be permanent.”

“Your Grace,” the Red Priestess starts to say, but Rhaegar holds up a hand to silence her.

“I’m with you, Elia.” She felt a little of the weight she’d borne for the both of them these last thirteen years fall off her shoulders. “This time, we do this together. For our children. For our family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar is just out here experiencing all the truth bombs, and really, Elia isn’t having it. She shouldn’t have to put up with his accusations, his anger, his indignation after everything he’s done. She kept the family safe, raised his kids, ruled his kingdom while he chased prophecy. For her that’s what this is about, Jon is still an idea to her in the same way Rhaegar is just an idea to Jon, but it’s a little different. She’s been exchanging letters with Ashara and Ned, maneuvering for years, Jon’s been a part of her life almost as long as her own kids. Whatever her feelings towards Lyanna, she has a better grasp on the situation with Rhaegar’s parenting, the political situation in Westeros, and long term goals. She doesn’t need to hear Rhaegar’s recriminations; she made the best decisions she could considering the circumstances and regrets nothing.
> 
> I feel like it’s important to manage expectations with Rhaegar. Someone pointed out a couple chapters ago that Rhaegar’s obsession with the prophecy likely comes from the need to validate the tragedy surrounding his own birth, and I agree. Just because Elia’s temporarily got him on board with participating in protecting their family and ruling their kingdom, doesn’t mean Rhaegar’s done with this prophecy. He can’t be. This is his obsession and need. She gave him end goals: meet Jon, see Aegon, question Rhaenys only after we investigate the circumstances behind this events. He’s a pretty goal-oriented guy, and at least these are concrete. He’ll be on board, but he’s not by any means fixed.
> 
> I think it’s important also to keep throwing out the prince who was promised because I haven’t fixated on who that is. Even in canon it’s said multiple times about multiple characters because I have a more liberal view of prophecy based on something I learned off the Expanse. The show was a sci-fi epic but the main point is on a terraformed planet, a scientist explained that in human-made environments when things fail they hit a point where they cascade because too many systems fail to ever be recovered, but nature is a lot less likely to hit a cascade because there are so many other systems to cover where things fail...essentially. If the world needs to be saved, who’s to say there aren’t multiple possibilities that either step up or don’t depending on situations. Maybe it’s Jon or Aegon or Rhaenys, but does it really matter? None of them can do it alone.
> 
> I’ve really enjoyed everyone’s comments about Catelyn. Some really strong opinions that I think are valid. I don’t necessarily think she was a bad mother just a selfish one even abandoning Rickon and Robb to tend to Bran, even abandoning Bran to start a war, even try to mold Arya into someone she wasn’t. They were all choices borne of maternal love. She’s just very brash and very selfish even in how she chooses to love her children. It’s a character flaw, but a realistic one.


	24. Aegon

Aegon isn’t introduced to Winterfell’s newest arrivals, he simply shows up to breakfast and finds them present. No one ever introduces them, no one ever calls them by name, but Ned Stark knows he’s smart enough to recognize Ser Arthur Dayne by his sword alone and Lyanna Stark by the reverence she receives around the keep. Lady Ashara makes her presence known with a cheerful greeting and a warm hug before she sits him down to talk about his life, about his accomplishments, with questions about the improvements he’s introduced into the small council for King’s Landing, for the expansion of public infrastructure, for a more efficient method of governance, about how very little of it has come to fruition with Tywin Lannister, Petyr Baelish, Jon Connington, and even Mace Tyrell blocking his proposals like they get paid for that purpose.

He wonders as he passes through the halls and sees Jon spar with Robb Stark and Arya and Alysanne and Bran, sees Arya skim her knees grappling with Alysanne, sees Rickon and Torrhen hanging off Arthur Dayne as he instructs Robb and Jon with Benjen Stark like he’s a tree to play on and not the legendary Sword of the Morning what this family is like. What his half-brother is like.

They avoid him, not out of malice he thinks, all very respectful, almost overly deferential, but it’s clear that even Alysanne has been instructed to stay out of Aegon’s way. He holes up with Jojen, feeling unwelcome in Winterfell in a way he hadn’t before their arrival, uncomfortable in the feeling that he’s putting them out in their own home by his presence. Lyanna Stark teaches the girls to fight and hunt and track, laughs with Syrio Forel over his water dancing, teaches Bran and Jojen to ride like centaurs, but she never speak a word to Aegon aside from polite greetings and never stays in a room alone with him. Ser Arthur Dayne instructs sparring and enchants the kids with stories of Braavos and entertains himself working with the smith in the castle forge but can never meet Aegon’s eyes. Alysanne and Torrhen are the easiest to draw out, young as they are, both boring and entertaining in the way only children can be.

But Aegon wants to know Jon, and Jon is the most elusive person in the castle.

Somehow, Jon makes himself busier than Aegon. He rides with his mother or his sister, sits in on Jojen’s now-mandatory warging lessons with the Dayne and Stark children, works in the forge with Arthur or trains with Robb or helps in the glass garden in a painfully obvious attempt to avoid being alone with Aegon who’s gone equally out of his way to seek Jon. It’s endearing and infuriating all at the same time so Aegon plots and plans, spends weeks taking note of Jon’s schedule and keeping to himself enough for the boy to relax his guard if only for a moment.

Then, Aegon learns he prays to the Old Gods and everything falls into place.

Every evening, like clockwork, Jon takes Alysanne riding in the Godswood, sometimes with Bran or Arya or even Sansa and Jojen, but most often alone with Alysanne before handing her off to Arthur or Lyanna and spending ten minutes at most praying in front of the heart tree.

Aegon waits there, reclining in the boughs with a book, for the moment Jon hands off his sister to his mother, accepting a kiss on his cheek with a grimace and turning to press a hand against the wood of the heart tree, head bowed in silent prayer that Aegon has never understood even growing up in the hub of the Seven. 

What use has he for religion? The Old Gods may not be influenced by men like the Seven is, easily swayed and corruptible, but the solitary nature of their worship confuses him even more than the Ironborn’s amoral Drowned God or the jealous single Lord of Light for some of the Essosi.

He shuts his book and leans over the branch.

“Have you been avoiding me?”

He’s disappointed when Jon doesn’t startle, looking up with wide, guilty eyes and unsure how to answer.

“I’m Aegon. Your brother. But you knew that.”

Jon’s expression shutters instantly. 

Very few people have bad things to say about Jon, even the bad things aren’t so much bad traits just bad habits: he’s self-sacrificing when he needn’t be, he’s impatient and prefers offensive strategy to defensive, he provokes people with words but only when he thinks he can win and doesn’t want to wait for them to act, he’s vain and prone to making mistakes when he panics. But no one had ever said a word about this defensive sort of anger, coiled like a viper waiting to strike if Aegon says a single word wrong.

Aegon only smiles, excited by the challenge.

“King Rhaegar Targaryen is your father, but not your siblings’.”

“Arthur Dayne is my father,” replies Jon in a voice that brooks no argument, and Aegon tilts his head. “I don’t know Rhaegar Targaryen. I only met the man once, a conversation both short and unimpressive by any measure. Rhaegar Targaryen is not my father.”

“And yet, you are my kin,” replies Aegon evenly, leaping down from the tree to land in front of Jon. He looks away, arms crossed over his chest, and a calico cat curling around his ankle that hisses at Aegon when he looks at it. Aegon raises his eyebrows and tries not to equate the hissing cat to Jon’s mood with great difficulty. “Do you think I’m angry? Maybe some people might be. My cousins, perhaps, my uncles, certainly, my sister, likely, all at the insult paid to my mother of which you are living proof.”

Jon shakes his head and turns to leave.

Aegon makes no move to go after him, leaning against the tree and watching him closely.

“I am none of them.” Jon halts, mid-step, and Aegon feels something like longing burst free of the shell where he’d buried it deep inside his soul. 

He’d grown up surrounded by people that loved him even amidst the viper’s nest of King’s Landing and his father’s obsession with prophecy. His mother loved him, his sister protected him, his cousins and uncles doted upon him, but Aegon had never known anything like a brother. In Sam, he’d come close, but seeing Sam with Dickon, different as they are, Aegon’s always known it isn’t the same. And Quentyn and Trystane view him as piece to be manipulated and a strange foreign entity respectively, kin but not quite family. 

Jon Targaryen adores his siblings, carves time for them out of his day and dotes on them the way Rhaenys has always doted on Aegon. He sees it growing in the way he treats his cousin too, listening to Bran’s stories about knights and Sansa’s about King’s Landing gossip and fashion that even when he doesn’t understand, he’ll at least pay attention to. Aegon has known how much he wants a brother since he watched Jon instruct his sister and Arya on how to shoot an arrow, laugh with Robb when it hit way off the mark, and apologize with a gift of candy and promise of a ride through the Godswood after Lord Stark had scolded them.

He doubts, like Rhaenys, that Jon would understand the way his mind works, but he wants to have family with the patience and willingness to listen regardless.

He wants a brother. He wants Jon. He just needs to determine if Jon wants him too.

“What happened between our parents is no concern of ours.”

“Isn’t it? They say you’re a genius,” drawls Jon, peering at Aegon over his shoulder. “Surely if that’s so, you must know that isn’t true.”

“It’s no concern of ours,” repeats Aegon, edging closer to Jon like he’s a cornered wild animal and not his wary younger brother. “If Dorne and the North want to war over something that happened thirteen years ago, if our mothers want to claw each other’s eyes out over a man who saw them both as a means to an end, if the lords of Westeros want to rage and rant over the rights to an ugly cursed chair, it’s no concern of ours. I’m not Dorne, and you’re not the North. I’m not Elia’s son, and you’re not Lyanna’s. I’m not the heir, and you’re not the usurper. I’m Aegon, and you’re Jon. And wherever we go from right here should be a decision made by us not when the world expects from us.”

“It’s an unrealistic way to look at the situation,” says Jon, though his tone has evened out and become brooding rather than defensive.

“It isn’t. People want to see the world in absolutes, because it makes them feel better, want to complicate simple problems to give reason to wrongs they commit. But this isn’t about them, it’s us. Do you have room for another siblings, enough love for more family, any willingness to take my hand even knowing that the world won’t be kind for it?”

Jon tips back his head and sighs, Aegon more than a little jealous that Jon doesn’t seem near as cold as he despite having grown up in Essos.

“Do you think it’s so easy?”

“Not at all,” says Aegon airily, heart pounding faster with excitement, with anticipation. He can see Jon caving, and he’s so close to victory, he can’t wait to taste it. “I imagine it will be very difficult but the war we’re fighting isn’t ours. It’s the one we’ve inherited.”

Jon stares at Aegon in the waning sunlight, head tilted and strange smile on his lips. It shouldn’t hurt so much, Aegon’s used to seeing it on people’s face. He’d only hoped never to see it on Jon’s. Like he’s too strange to be real, too smart to be so dumb, too foreign to be worth understanding.

“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he says thoughtfully instead.

Aegon bites his lower lip and admits, “I’m not a wolf.”

“No, but you are pack, aren’t you?”

A burgeoning smile spreads across Aegon’s face as he shrugs, “The Targaryens, the Starks, the Martells, the Daynes, one big pack.”

“I don’t know if I would stretch that far.”

“Maybe,” agrees Aegon, undeterred, “but we’ll get there.”

Jon hums in agreement, and Aegon slants him a sideways glance and wonders if it’s too soon to ask. He can’t resist, though, insatiable as his mind is for knowledge and understanding and information.

“Jon?”

“Aegon.”

“Call me Egg,” says Aegon automatically, Jon’s eyebrows furrowing together and lips twitching in amusement at his nickname. “Is it true you have dragons?”

“And where did you hear that?”

It’s not an outright no, which Aegon appreciates. They can’t build a relationship on lies or secrets. Maybe Jon won’t tell him tonight, but Aegon wishes he would.

“Varys. Petyr Baelish. Tywin Lannister and Jon Connington and Uncle Oberyn and Arianne.” Aegon reports honestly while Jon looks surprised. “News from Essos says a dragons were born during a battle with the Dothraki outside Mantarys on the night the red comet split the sky.”

“Only death can pay for life,” says Jon while Aegon pauses, eyebrows furrowing in a frown. He drops his suspicions and refocused his questions.

“You were in Mantarys with Benjen Stark. I heard him tell Lord Stark.” Jon slants him a long, impassive look. “They say the Dothraki have them, and you traveled with a Dothraki khalasar. They say the Golden Company has them, and you squired for the captain. They say the Company of the Rose has them, and they helped escort you to Volantis. That’s what Ashara said to Lady Catelyn.”

“Are you sure you’re a genius and not a spymaster?”

“Do you have dragons?”

Jon considers the question for a moment before meeting Aegon’s eyes and saying, “Meet me at the crypts after nightfall, and I’ll tell you.”

It’s suspicious, but Aegon’s too inquisitive not to go. 

At supper, Jon sits between Aegon and Arya, drawing him into a conversation with Robb and Jojen of guerilla tactics in the battlefield that actually engages Aegon mentally, especially when Jojen brings up the morality and practicality of using dragons as a weapon on the battlefield. After, he retreats to the library while the Stark and Dayne children attend Jojen’s daily lessons on warging before sneaking out to meet Jon.

Except there’s no sneaking.

Waiting with Jon is Arthur and Lyanna along with Alysanne and Arya, the latter of whom having seemingly tagged along unknowingly one time and became a frequent visitor. Jon opens the door to the crypts of the Kings of Winter and out fly three dragons, larger than the biggest hunting hound Aegon has ever seen and yet not so large as he imagined they could become. They sniff Aegon and butt their snouts against his hand, allowing him to feel the almost unpleasant heat and rough scales of their bodies, before he and Jon are hurried along by Arthur, out of Winterfell’s courtyard and into the Godswood where the dragons disperse, to hunt according to Jon.

Arthur teaches he and Arya to set a fire while Lyanna passes around a cup of ale, looking between he and Jon before informing them only one cup and no more, the girls scooting close together near the fire until Arthur warns them to back up to avoid unpleasant burns.

_Only death can pay for life._

But who’s death, Aegon wonders.

Rhaenys had a dream of him dying and sent Thoros of Myr to resurrect him.

Aegon died the same day, perhaps even the same time dragons returned to the world.

Jon place those eggs in that pyre amid salt and smoke.

Is it all a strange coincidence? Life, death, and rebirth. Could it be the death of the Faceless Man, his blood, his life that paid for dragons to be born? Can it be? A life for a life, that seems to be the trade Faceless Men and their Many-Faced God deal in. So would it not make sense if one life can pay for three, for it to be one life connected in three, because, as his father so often says, the dragon has three heads. But, it’s undeniably one dragon.

Dragon dreams and resurrection and living dragons.

It seems too strange to be real.

Aegon asks Jon for the story when the dragons return, curling up near the fire, as comfortable with Lyanna, Arthur, and Alysanne as Aegon and Jon, though Jon whispers he believes that comes from proximity and time than the natural Targaryen affinity for dragons. He half expects him to beg off the question, used to the vipers of King’s Landing and the contrary nature of his cousins; he loves the Sand Snakes and Arianne, but he doesn’t think he’s received a straight answer from them about anything in his life. But, instead, Jon looks to his parents who offer shrugs and leave the truth-telling to his discretion, and so the story spills out, and Aegon loses himself in the tales of Old Valyria and the stonemen and the long-abandoned Targaryen manse they’d looted for food and supplies.

Jon mentions the books and scrolls left behind, preserved in a blood-warded storeroom beneath the ground floor and Aegon nearly swoons while Jon laughs, Arya and Alysanne grimacing at Aegon’s bookish nature.

It’s strange, being around Jon and his family.

Aegon’s family, largely with the exception of his distant father, is loving, even close, but in a different way than Jon’s. His mother is a queen with no option to neglect the realm for extra time with her children, not when their father won’t take any time away from his incessant research for his kingly duties. His sister is a warrior and a wanderer, traveling from place to place, never seeming to slow or having any desire. His cousins and Uncle Oberyn visit often enough, but Dorne is far for the royal family whose duties tear them in a thousand different directions. Viserys is troubled, and Rhaella is an excellent grandmother but also far from an everyday enjoyment as positioned as she is on Dragonstone while Daenerys is still an uncomfortable anomaly, blocked from getting to know each other by the weight of their pending engagement.

The Dayne-Stark family is close in the way of people who’ve lived together and seen each other frequently and spent time enough to know each other fully. The villainous Lyanna Stark his uncles and cousins spoke of is largely unladylike, she sprawls and doesn’t mind dirt and has hands calloused from swordplay and hard work both. Ser Arthur dotes on her, on his kids of which seems to include Jon despite sharing no blood, and seems to treat his daughter and Arya no different than Bran or Robb or Jon. He isn’t a patient instructor, but he’s a patient listener like Jon who gives great advice on other people’s problems but seems short-sighted in response to his own. Alysanne has not been raised like a highborn, though she shows all the hallmarks of having a highborn’s education. She sprawls over Arthur, over Lyanna, over Jon, picks up swords and knives and bows with no hint of insecurity for others but waxes lyrical poetic over Sansa’s pretty gowns while Lyanna hides her grimaces, and Arthur promises to make his best effort to acquire a pretty dress for his pretty daughter. Jon is quiet in the manner of one who doesn’t like to fill silence with unnecessary words. He’s comfortable and loved and listens unless he has something of value to add to the conversation unless his sister starts telling stories that he corrects with the long-suffering air of someone whose used to her exaggerations.

He sits among wolves and stars and dragons, feeling welcome and accepted in a place he’d not expected to receive much beyond courtesy and politeness and respect.

The next morning Robb makes room for him automatically and doesn’t pause in arguing with Jojen about the use of wargs in large scale warfare as weapons rather than simple scouts while Jon holds his babbling baby brother Torrhen in his lap, taking turns shoveling oats into each other them mouths and listening to Arthur, Lyanna, and Ashara argue of the use of poison as a cure for disease, listening when Aegon voices his well-informed opinion before breaking down potential risks and consequences with the expertise of long-time, practiced healers. And Aegon feels like he belongs in the halls of Winterfell, comfortable amongst the direwolves of House Stark in a way no one in his family had ever thought possible.

Except his mother, he thinks, looking at Jon smile as he led a spoonful of oats to Torrhen’s mouth, his mother knew without dragon dreams or greenseers that history is not the sum of things and people are more than their pasts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first to address the comment someone made about Lyanna and Arthur’s presence in Westeros. It’s been thirteen years. They were escorted from Volantis on Davos’s ship to White Harbor, and Arthur, being the most recognizable of the pair, took pains to avoid recognition but no one is looking for them and people who know the aren’t running around announcing their presence. Arthur abandoned a lifetime vow to be Kingsguard, Lyanna basically started a war, no one is announcing them, but I think despite the circumstances, it makes sense the people of Winterfell are happy to have her back (Catelyn excepted obviously). They knew her all her life, and despite everything that’s happened, she was family.
> 
> I always planned for Jon and Aegon’s relationship to be the least fraught probably because in most AU GoT stories I read, it’s always the most troubled. Aegon’s intelligent, Jon’s very sympathetic, and I always planned that once past the initial awkwardness of Jon and his family not wanting to trouble Aegon or make him uncomfortable in the most awkward and uncomfortable way humanly possible. It’s not malicious. They’re genuinely trying to be considerate except for, actually Jon, who just doesn’t know how to deal with Aegon or what to do. But they’re in this boat together, and Aegon’s known about Jon for a while, he’s too smart to take some issues personally or shoulder burdens that aren’t his to carry.
> 
> Jon’s such a strange character to write conflict about because he’s very standoffish until he just isn’t. With some characters, he’ll push and with some (i.e. Catelyn and his family) he walks a very thin line. Part of why I have difficulty is because he’s almost the exact opposite of me. I’m very standoffish with strangers and will shoulder a lot of abuse before striking back in a way I just won’t tolerate with family. I think at least part of the problem is that he’s willing to endure a lot in canon because of his upbringing whereas when it comes to defending others he’s more active. It’s a trait that’s somewhat diminished in this story because he didn’t grow up under Catelyn’s reign of emotional abuse but it’s still prevalent because I think it’s an important character trait that effects his decision making, particularly it will when he meets Elia and Rhaegar for the first time.


	25. Arianne

A trip to frozen wastelands of the North ought to have been long, arduous, but relatively straightforward. That she didn’t have her father’s blessing, all the better. Nothing but a Dornish stallion, Daemon Sand, and her riding along the King’s Road right up until the moment she stopped into the Crossroad’s Inn for shitty lukewarm ale and shepherd’s pie and found Renly Baratheon hunched in the corner, swimming beneath the folds of an oversized cloak.

Her cousin had an inexplicable attraction to this pompous little stag that Arianne could understand from a physical standpoint. Renly Baratheon might have been a little slim, a little twiggy, a little too polished than she preferred in a man, but he cut a handsome figure nonetheless. Of course, then he had a tendency to open his mouth, and that was where the fantasy vanished into a puff of smoke. He thought a great deal of himself, weak though he was, of his house, traitors though they were, and of his swordsmanship, though Arianne could have crushed him at the mere age of ten. He was a prideful little shit, but she supposed after years as a hostage pride was all he had, especially since he must have learned by now that he didn’t have Aegon’s affections.

Arianne recalled when she was like her cousin, sexually adventurous but choosy. Aegon didn’t just fall into bed with any pretty boy or girl and never with prostitutes. At four and ten, she knew he’s only recently fallen into bed with Renly after his brush with death and a few of the serving girls and smallfolk in his acquaintance and favor. But he was careful not to catch disease nor dishonor a girl in a way that could be proven. He may bed a lord but never a highborn lady whose reputations would end in ruin if the affair was discovered even if the boy she bedded was the crown prince, but even then, Arianne doubted he’d indulged with more than five people total and had been intimate with even less. 

Amongst that small number was Renly Baratheon who insisted he hadn’t been running to Storm’s End to stage some futile uprising but rather to Winterfell, worried for Aegon who hadn’t written him.

Sighing, Arianne hunkered down at the inn for a week awaiting a response from her aunt about what to do with the crown’s runaway hostage. A week of babysitting a pining Renly, rejecting handsy drunks by engaging in bar fights, and taking Daemon Sand to her bed with enough frequency to press him into asking Doran for her hand.

Again.

Arianne enjoyed Daemon as she enjoyed all her lovers, but she had seen both her aunt and parent’s marriages disintegrate. Aunt Elia’s noble husband in a marriage of political alliance became a disastrous affair that humiliated her before all of Westeros because of Rhaegar’s obsession with prophecy or his lust for some she-wolf in heat, throwing away duty and honor both for naught but blood and death. Her parents wed for lust and some semblance of love and declining steadily until naught but bitterness remained, soured further still when she retreated to Essos, forced to leave her children behind in her father’s care for the sake of inheritance and legacy.

Passion was not love.

Arianne might have to marry for convenience, for politics, for the betterment of her house, but she’d no sooner marry a man based on passion and lust. She took men to her bed for lust, for fun, for political gain and information, though that hadn’t come into play until her father dared to maneuver her out of the line of succession in favor of Quentyn, when she realized she could trust no one, not even her own blood to safeguard her rights. If the day ever came that she met a man who’d abstain from the bed of any woman, highborn, smallfolk, or courtesan, then Arianne would except his hand whether she loved him or not. She didn’t want love that didn’t last or passion that burnt out as quick as it fires, she wanted a partner who respected her mind as much as he desired her body, who saw her as more than a means to end, who may never love her but was honorable enough not to shame her the way her aunt had been or set her aside as her mother had been or even be one in a string of dozens as her uncle’s paramour had been. Because, fierce love and burning passion aside, Ellaria had no promises, no assurances, no safety in her uncle’s arms, nothing but his word, which Arianne learned long ago met little coming from the lips of any man even kin.

The letter came with alarming news.

Arianne was not to go north nor return Renly to the Red Keep. Instead, they were both bound for Highgarden, an independent examination of the catspaw by Qyburn placed him with a venereal disease early in its development, the most recent outbreak of which had been at brothels in the Reach. Renly was to be fostered in Highgarden—away from Aegon and the court and Stannis’s embarrassment, Arianne suspected—under the care of the Tyrells who would offer her shelter during her investigation and were not above suspicion.

She would rather go north, to Rhaenys, to Aegon, but she went south much to her consternation, dragging Renly with her, lamenting the accommodations the whole way there as though he were the put-upon prince and not the hostage.

Well over a month in company of the delicate Renly Baratheon it took to go from the Crossroad’s Inn to Highgarden where she found herself welcomed into the Tyrell’s keep with minimal fanfare and a great deal of fawning. Margaery was paraded in front of her as though she was the perfect young woman, an unapologetic advertisement towards her cousin, Prince Aegon, who’s parents’ temporary ceasefire had not come with a rescinding of his betrothal to his aunt, though how the queen of the Seven Kingdoms would fair being more a champion for Essosi emancipation than Westerosi smallfolk, Arianne could only imagine. The greeting Renly received was far more lukewarm than Arianne’s, though Arianne thought it rude considering they’d likely traded either a position for Margaery in either Rhaenys’ or Daenerys’ nonexistent ladies-in-waiting or some position for one of their sons put them in a better situation than Renly at least.

On the very first day, Arianne decided she liked Margaery, respected her manner of speaking, and appreciated her quick wit. She also snarled over lemon cakes and sparred in secrets with the Queen of Thorns and watched Renly and Loras fall in love over the quickest spar known to mankind and artful flicks of their luscious locks. It was all very dramatic but entertaining nonetheless.

On the second day, she beat Renly soundly, then Loras, then Garlan all before midday meal and received news she’d been waiting for, that the outbreak of venereal disease had come not from Highgarden’s brothels but Oldtown’s thanks to Daemon’s investigation. So off she started to Oldtown, the city of hypocritical old men and, she supposed, some sort of knowledge, traveling further south still rather than north to Rhaenys at her request.

When Arianne arrived in Oldtown, it didn’t take much asking to find out about a man from the north with a scar and a Valyrian steel dagger plundered from the Iron Islands. Most men, in Arianne’s experience, said too much when they were fucking a pretty girl, and the catspaw was no exception. She was directed to a fancy brothel a stone’s throw away from the Citadel and slipped inside its luxurious halls to find a boy not much older than Aegon with fine-boned features and mahogany hair, lounging on a settee near the doorway with a wolfish, predatory lookin his eyes as an ancient maester pawed at him, his smile a brittle, dangerous thing.

“Have you a moment?” Arianne interrupts while Daemon gives her a disbelieving look, though the boy presses a kiss to maester’s lips, stands and smiles, dipping his head and asking what they require. “Is the owner this establishment present?”

The boy laughs airily, “No, of course not, he’s some fancy lord now.” Arianne raises her eyebrows. “He spends his time in King’s Landing and sends someone out to check over the accounting books every month or so. Horrible human being, but he has a head for finances. His own, anyway.”

“I’m looking for someone.” The whore sighs, and Arianne grits her teeth at the stories he’s likely spinning in his head. “About a man, a catspaw, a sellsword with the look of the north.”

“You find all sorts in here,” says the boy dismissively. “I’d know. I was born here.” Arianne grimaces, and he nods but continues anyway. “We have three men here from the Second Sons right now. Five from the Stormcrows. Bronn in the back is an independent contractor with a taste for any girl but a preference for the Dornish.” Arianne’a nostrils flare in outrage. “This is a brothel not the Sept of Baelor. When did you hear he was last here?”

“A few weeks before the red comet, long enough to get to King’s Landing.”

“A long time ago,” says the boy skeptically while Arianne’s anger mount, but he nods. “Ramsay Snow.” She looks surprised, and he shrugs. “He’s the sort you remember, bastard son of a lord in the north. Bolton, I think. Tried to kill his elder brother, but that’s an internal matter. Apparently the Warden of the North found out he was carrying on the family tradition of flaying people.” Arianne’s stomach roils in disgust. “The queen supported his push for execution, but his lord father begged for clemency and he was banished instead. Nasty sort of man. Loves skinny girls, the delicate kind. Broke, but that’s his fault. Saw him in here once with Joffrey Baratheon and Theon Greyjoy.”

“Theon Greyjoy, you’re certain?”

“Yes, of course,” says the boy with a shrug while Arianne’s mind turns over this surprising revelation. Theon ought to be leagues away in Dorne, in Sunspear, being watched and held by her father and brothers. She’d have to inquire on it, not to her father, not to Quentyn, but maybe Trystane, one of the Sand Snakes. “You don’t forget a fool like Theon Greyjoy or a horror like Joffrey Baratheon. He didn’t seem the sort to carry Valyrian steel. He said he won it off Tyrion Lannister when he passed through Lannisport.”

“The Lannisters?” Arianne mumbles to herself.

“Nonsense,” the boy continues, startling Arianne once again.

“Why do you say that?”

“If you ask me, he didn’t have the look of a man with funds to spare enough to accept a fancy dagger in place of good coin. He had the look of man with cruelty and madness who’d do anything for personal gain. I’m sure that dagger was payment upfront to be completed with coin upon delivery, but Tyrion Lannister is too smart to give a catspaw such a recognizable dagger. He also has no motive to kill anyone. He’s heir to Casterly Rock despite his fathers hatred, his brother is Kingsguard and his sister is married off far away from him. Tyrion wants the Rock. Tywin, well…” the boy shrugs. “It’s odd: three cruel, young, stupid people were all seen together in this brothel the weeks before an attempted assassination, but it’s also a little convenient. Tyrion’s dagger. Theon’s grudge against the crown. Joffrey’s lust for power.”

It _is_ a little too convenient, which doesn’t mean they weren’t involved, they must have been, but they make the perfect pawns in a bigger game, nonetheless. Who has the most to gain from assassinating Aegon? Viserys, perhaps, a dear friend of both Joffrey and Theon, but Theon wants to go home as much as Joffrey wants power, they could achieve both with Viserys on the throne, but why was Theon in the Reach and not Sunspear? What connection does this have to the assassination in Essos? Faceless Men were no small feat, that required money. Jon Targaryen stood in the way of Viserys and the throne all same, but he also posed a risk to Dorne, to Aegon, to Elia in her father’s eyes.

“Who owns this brothel?”

“Littlefinger.”

Arianne stiffens, it’s always Littlefinger. She’ll have to sail for Dorne; she needs answers only her father can provide.

“You never mentioned your name,” she says, slanting the clever whore a sideways glance.

“Nor did you, Princess.” He picks dirt out from beneath his polished nails and smiles.

“You’re sure you’re just a whore?”

“That’s what they tell me,” purrs the boy.

“You ever thought about being something else?”

“Got an offer once,” he says with a shrug, “but I’m nobody’s bird and some fields are more dangerous than sex work.”

Arianne nods in understanding and suspicion. He’s exactly the sort that Varys would have sought to become one of his little birds. He’s young, he’s attractive, he’s lowborn, he’s intelligent. That he’s likely spent his whole life in a brothel, all the better. He learned to play the game long before he understood what that meant and become an expert at prying out secrets and motives, looking at a person and knowing what makes them tick.

“If you’re ever in the market for a different line of work, you can come to me,” says Arianne thoughtfully, tipping him with three golden dragons and an appreciative nod. He pockets the coins and smiles, soft and pretty, before calling out behind her:

“Satin.” She stops and waits. “My name. It’s Satin Flowers.”

Arianne smiles slightly as she steps out onto the street and makes straight for the harbor, desperate to book passage south, taking her yet farther away from her cousins but pulled for reasons she cannot name. Her heart pounds in her chest with fear and anger. Her father would never do anything to hurt their family intentionally, but their father was a short-sighted fool in his lust to increase Dorne’s wealth and status, an isolated player in a dangerous game set in a tangled web of kingdoms and alliances he’d long been removed from. That _Dorne_ had long been removed from.

He didn’t understand the players, the motives, the feuds, the games, not like Aunt Elia did or Rhaenys did or Arianne did. He thought he knew better, knew enough to manipulate the players on the board while they manipulated him, pushing him into a perfect position to weaken Dorne, Aunt Elia, and the throne in one fell swoop. If only it wasn’t too late to stop things; she couldn’t tell Aunt Elia everything, not yet, not when the truth placed Dorne in a dangerous position and her truce with Rhaegar may not survive that gulf.

“Princess!” Daemon calls, stopping her. “Arianne, what’s the urgency?”

“My father thinks Lyanna Stark’s son is a threat,” says Arianne with a sigh and a sad smile, remembering the little boy who’d danced with his sister and bashed the heads of poisonous snakes with the granddaughter of a Volantene triarch. “I met him once. Jon. He’s a sweet kid, but he’s a sweet kid who was trained by the Sword of the Morning, squired for the Golden Company who has a history fighting with bastard Targaryens, and allegedly gained possession of the ancestral sword of Aegon the Conqueror. He’s the living embodiment of Aunt Elia’s humiliation, a warrior, and in possession of Blackfyre. He’s a threat to my family, but if my father eliminated him, a prince of the blood, not even my aunt could save Dorne from disaster. The North would retaliate against Dorne. Dorne would say he was a trying to start a rebellion, and we’d return to the chaos of thirteen years ago. Worse still if Aegon was killed by a northern lord’s bastard. Two princes murdered, the kingdoms at war. Viserys would be next in line, and he’s been having an affair with Cersei Lannister for years.”

“She’s married to Stannis. And she’s been having a affair with her brother far longer. They have children together so he could hardly claim an annulment.”

_That didn’t stop Rhaegar_ , thinks Arianne bitterly.

“If they’re willing to kill the crown prince for power, then they’re willing to kill Stannis. Besides, Cersei Lannister has three blonde haired, blue eyed children. How many Baratheons have you seen with blonde hair and blue eyes?”

Daemon stiffens, “Jaime’s or Viserys’?”

“Does it matter, besides if Cersei potentially being queen doesn’t bring the Lannisters to the table, a marriage between Daenerys and Joffrey would. Then all that stands between the Lannisters and the throne is Viserys.”

“And Rhaegar,” adds Daemon.

Arianne stiffens, then shakes her head. She has time to get to Dorne, to speak with her father, to see if Dorne has made an enemy of House Stark, the North, House Dayne, and maybe even King Rhaegar by her father’s actions. Cersei Lannister holds an unnatural obsession with Rhaegar, besotted by him as Rhaegar is by his beloved prophecy; she won’t allow her father to kill him, not now, not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so fascinated by Arianne Martell. From a cinematic standpoint, it makes sense to cut her storyline from the show because eight seasons of ten and sometimes less episodes each it’s necessary to trim unnecessary fat like the potentially fake Aegon and therefore Dorne’s succession drama and all that Golden Company stuff but she’s such a fascinating character even through research. She’s going to become a larger character the further north she gets, but she has to start dragging out some secrets first.
> 
> I don’t necessarily think I fall I the side of the show being chauvinistic, which has been passed around, but I think it definitely didn’t want to explore a lot of the struggles and rebellions of being a female in Westeros. There was Arya and Brienne as the two biggest and obvious rebellions of female narratives; some people hate Sansa but I think she had one of the best and most realistic transformations in the show and one of the most subtle. Then there was Daenerys and Cersei who, I personally felt, dealt with their struggles of female societal positions in similar ways: destruction, anger, and power grabs on opposite ends of the spectrum, Cersei through fear and Dany through awe. Arianne, from what I read, was interesting in the sense that she used her femininity to get what she wanted, which isn’t unlike Cersei but didn’t seem as malicious and was something she seemed to have developed after feeling betrayed by her father. And I would actually argue that even planning to place her on the throne, it’s still betrayal. In Dorne, she’d rule in her own right whereas the queen of Westeros is the position she’d occupy by grace of her husband where she’d be largely a figurehead. There’s not one type of woman, and I think it’s interesting to explore these different women and how they navigate societal expectations placed upon them In Westerosi society, which the books seems to have done better than the show which prioritized more cinematic exploits like fighting ice zombies, burning people alive every season, and war.
> 
> I had a conversation today with a guy I work with who is super proud of having gone 10 years without using condoms, which seems like a non-sequitur but bear with me. Arianne is so fascinating for me because she is surrounded by a culture where promiscuity is more excepted, as are bastards and female rulers, but it’s a bit of a house of cards. Lovers and bastards are accepted to a point, female rulers are accepted to a point, promiscuity is accepted to a point. I argued condoms are a must because at the end of the day only one person is stuck with an unexpected child and then got a snap back about not painting him with the same brush as ‘some men’ and he’d step up and take care of an unwanted child. It lined up very nicely with this chapter about Arianne who has lived and learned that acceptability only extends so far as the men in power surrounding her allow it to, even Ellaria could be Oberyn’s beloved paramour one day only to be discarded the next. There is no certainties for her, no promises, no assurances. Ellaria only has Oberyn’s word, and Arianne knows that words are wind.


	26. Maester Aemon

_A Targaryen all alone in the world is a terrible thing._

Maester Aemon is not a Targaryen alone, not really, but he might as well be, isolated as he is from his family. He receives their letters with the same frequency as news from beyond the wall of the deserter, Mance Rayder’s movements, and fairytales coming to life and an incestuous horror house that provides food and shelter to the Watch in exchange for ignorance, though in light of Queen Elia’s generosity and Lord Eddard Stark’s diligence to renovations and Watch numbers, Aemon has argues against allowing such a travesty to continue.

Rhaella most often writes either of her early childhood before Jaehaerys wed her to Aerys or her daughter, her life on Dragonstone far from the viper’s of King’s Landing. Elia writes him almost as often as Rhaegar, about the kids and about politics rather than about prophecy and fears and insecurities. He feels bad about Rhaegar, about encouraging his interest in the prophecy when he should have encouraged vigilance rather than obsession, when he should have dissuaded his interest in Lyanna Stark and belief he needed a third child, but Aemon is too old to drown in his regrets. Rhaenys writes of her adventures, and Aegon of his brilliant ideas, though most recently it’s been of Winterfell, of dragons, and of a boy named Jon that he called his brother.

Then the day comes when Jeor Mormont’s steward comes to fetch him, says a family member has come to visit, and Maester Aemon frowns but allows himself to be guided from the room and into the lord commander’s study where he’s introduced to Lady Meera Reed, Lady Dacey and Alysane Mormont, and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.

“Princess,” says Maester Aemon, holding out his hand as a delicate hand is slipped into his. His heart swells with love and joy at touching his kin, having her close for the first time in decades. “Rhaenys.”

“Uncle Aemon,” she says, voice hoarse like she’s speaking through her sobs. “I’m pleased to finally meet you.”

“And what is a dragon doing so far north, dear girl?”

“Learning,” answers Rhaenys, bringing his trembling hands to her face.

His fingers ghost over her features, committing the mental picture of her great niece to memory. Rhaegar had once written to say she was as beautiful as her mother and a testament to her Dornish heritage. Aerys had said so too but in a manner Aemon found distasteful and chose not to acknowledge. She feels like her face is a perfect mixture of Rhoynar and Old Valyrian features, and he pictures her with the warm olive skin and glossy black ringlets like her grandmother before her.

“You’re as beautiful as your mother, as your grandmother.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, uncle.”

“And you as well, niece,” says Aemon, patting her hand. “But I imagine you haven’t come all this way to meet your eldest living relative.”

Rhaenys laughs and links her arm through Aemon’s.

The two Mormont girls depart with the lord commander and Qhorin Halfhand while Aemon hears young Meera Reed trailing behind them. Rhaenys’ makes no mention of her presence so Aemon doesn’t either, enjoying the stories instead of her time on Bear Island learning what it means to be well-rounded survivor. He laughs over her stories of trying to start a fire with wet wood, their rotted wood, then wood that burns too hot, too fast, of trying to skin a deer for the first time, of pitching tents and learning how to fight while using the landscape around her to her advantage. Like, according to young Meera, the people of Dorne did to prevent Aegon the Conqueror from gaining possession of the kingdom during his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, like they did to ambush Rhaenys and her dragon.

“Though, Meera says the people of the Neck do it better,” teases Rhaenys her friend.

“We do,” adds Meera, “you’d need boats to get to the North. It would take an army bigger than Dorne has to survive the Neck with enough men to do any damage. We crannogmen would ensure _that_.”

“She’s very proud,” confides Rhaenys in a whisper.

“Not like you at all,” replies Aemon, chuckling, while Rhaenys shrugs and laughs.

They enter Maester Aemon’s study, and Rhaenys lights the candle after helping him into a seat near the fire. This Meera and Rhaenys tease each other over who is better at setting fires until Meera does so with an air of smugness that Aemon can feel across the room.

Rhaenys settles on the sofa beside him and holds his hand as Meera puts on a pot of tea in silence. He doesn’t know what he expects to hear from Rhaenys Targaryen, but he doesn’t expect to hear her ask about Lyanna Stark, Rhaegar, and the child borne of that union, how it connects to the prophecy Rhaegar has spent his whole life chasing about the prince who was promised and the three-headed dragon of the Targaryen.

It’s a loaded question considering the letters he’s received over the last several years and the confidences he keeps.

But he tells her the story as he knows it, which is a great deal more involved than the one the realm knows, the one that starts with a song of ice and fire, with a prophecy of Azor Azai and Nissa Nissa, ages before, of a promise between Prince Jacerys Velaryon and Lord Cregan Stark during the dance of dragons and the sigil of House Targaryen. That the darkness born in the North that had been pushed back but not defeated during one conquest that must been finished by another. It’s a long complicated history of magic and hedge-witches and madness and heroes, of the invasion of the Andals, the conquest by the First Men over the Children of the Forest centuries before the blood of Old Valyria ever arrived on the shores of Westeros.

Then he speaks of Rhaegar, feels Rhaenys’ had tightens on his.

The first he heard of Lyanna Stark came months before she ran away with Rhaegar. He’d written of her chivalry in challenging knights in defense of her father’s bannerman who’d been harmed by their squires, of her bravery in standing up to his father in the midst of his madness and paranoia, of his mistake in awarding her the Queen of Love and Beauty to acknowledge that accomplishment. Rhaegar had written her letters of House Stark’s histories, of the North’s legends, of those with Blood of the First Men and potential dragon eggs in the crypts of Winterfell. That was what Rhaegar said, and then Aegon had been born. Rhaegar had always been focused on the prophecy, but after Aegon, it reached fever pitch. Aemon thought he’d seen the darkness descending in a particular brand of paranoia and feared for his family and realm even more than he had under Aerys’ hands, then when Elia had been declared infertile, his fear at grown exponentially.

That was when the mentions of Lyanna changed.

Aemon always knew he’d been attracted to her, but the idea of running away with her, having child with her didn’t ever come about until Elia became infertile. Rhaegar thought her northerner blood and fighting spirit made her perfect for the mother of his Visenya and satisfied the prophecy’s conditions about ice and fire. Aemon had advised against it, but by then Aerys had learned Lyanna was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, demanded her head, and Rhaegar had ridden out to take her, calling it destiny. Aemon had argued Rhaegar could not raise a baseborn child as a third head of the dragon, and this too he would regret for the rest of his life. His attempts to prevent Rhaegar from dishonoring his family, his wife, and Lady Lyanna had ended in Rhaegar pressuring the High Septon to annul his marriage to Elia on grounds of infertility and the longevity of his House. It shamed him to admit his roll to Rhaenys, but she squeezes his hand and says nothing. His father would not look for them in Dorne, so to Dorne they went, Rhaegar desperate to impregnate her with his promised Visenya to achieve the prophecy’s conditions as soon as possible. When the war broke out, Rhaegar left his pregnant second wife in Dorne to fight a rebellion long in the making and Lyanna Stark birthed no Visenya but a little boy she took to Dorne with Ser Arthur Dayne after faking her death.

When the story ends, Rhaenys falls silent, thoughtful and contemplative.

“I have dragon dreams.”

Aemon balks in surprise.

“Aegon was resurrected by a Red Priest.”

Aemon shakes his head.

“Daenerys doesn’t burn in fire.”

Aemon turns his head when Meera sighs.

“And I heard Jon has dragons.”

“By the Seven, it’s begun.” Aemon mutters to himself. “I’d never considered this possibility. Not ever. What have you seen in the dreams?”

“I’ve seen my brother die, I’ve seen direwolves and dragons, a mountain blocking the sun and a wolf defending it. I’ve seen dead men rise from the snow. I’ve seen a three-eyed raven and babes turned to monsters and wildlings running south from the decimated north. Have I gone insane, uncle?”

“There are books in the library you may find beneficial to your particular brand of Targaryen magic. Bryden Rivers left a good deal of his private collection here. There is much I must consider, much I hadn’t considered on the nature of prophecy, on what it means to be Azor Azai and Nissa Nissa and Lightbringer.” Rhaenys presses a kiss to Aemon’s cheek as she leaves for bed, and Meera stays behind, promising to join her later. She remains by the crackling fire, Aemon thinks, waiting. “Young Meera, you come from a long line of wargs and greenseers, do you not?”

“My father is a greenseer, as is my brother. But you ought to know the Starks are stronger wargs than anyone.”

“Ah, yes, and you?”

“I am a warrior, my brother’s protector as Rhaenys will be Aegon’s.”

“There is a place I must go to retrieve what’s been lost, will you go?”

Meera agrees.

On Aemon’s instructions, Meera prepares two horses and arms herself well before clearing their trip beyond the wall with Lord Commander Mormont. She denies Qhorin Halfhand’s assistance as per instructions and comes to retrieve Aemon only after all of this is done, in a time quicker than he had expected. She leaves a letter for Rhaenys and helps Aemon into the saddle, wrapping him in furs and mounting the horse beside him before she guides him and the horse through the gates into the lands beyond the wall.

Aemon’s directions are in the form of a map he can no longer see that he passes to Meera. She examines it for less than five minutes before they begin moving again, through the freezing temperatures of the darkness.

The journey takes near a week, and Aemon expects silence from a girl that had said so little and offers such a peaceful feeling. But she narrates, describes the snow glistening from the boughs and the forest surrounding them and the direction they travel in and the landmarks they pass. For the first time in years, Aemon feels like he can see. She’s pleasant company and capable, making and breaking camp, hunting and trapping and cooking without complaint. She tells him news of the south, of Rhaenys and Aegon and Elia and Jon. The stories of Jon are the only ones Aemon doesn’t know, and he soaks them up, stories her brother, Jojen, has told her of Jon and Aegon, the dragons, and the Stark children.

And then they arrive at the Bloodraven’s cave.

A Child of the Forest comes out to meet them, taking each other their hands in her smaller ones and guides them inside.

“Prince Aemon Targaryen,” says a dry voice. “I’d expected not to see you again in this lifetime. This is not how things were supposed to turn out. All of us, were supposed to die, it was supposed to be different.”

“Is it better?”

“For some, yes, and others, no, but it is the reality now, and soon we must all be ready. He’s stronger now, magic has returned sooner, and he will be ready so too must we.”

“You know why I came?”

“Time again for the Targaryens to rise again,” whispers Brynden’s papery voice. “You’ve come for the sword of Visenya Targaryen. Have you found a worthy soul to wield it?”

“Yes,” says Aemon, “I’ve found the prince who was promised, the three-headed dragon. I swear by earth water.”

“By bronze and iron,” continues Brynden.

Meera finishes with: “By fire and ice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such a fascination and respect for Aemon Targaryen and (obviously) have this headcanon of him as this distant, passive observer with sage advice that is taken totally out of context. He’s such a gentle soul. I doubt I’ll write his POV again, just a fun character to see their perspective in the north like Catelyn Stark but I have every intention for him to meet Jon, Aegon, and Samwell Tarly before his somewhat canon but ultimately peaceful passing, but I’ll confess this spur of the moment visit was inspired by realizing it’s A little less than two hears between when Jon and Aegon met and the canon trip north of the king and queen after the death of the hand, which is not a long time to force Rhaegar to do some actual work but is for Rhaenys to hang out on Bear Island.
> 
> Anyway, I don’t know if it’s canon that the tv show three-eyed raven is the Bloodraven, but I like the mythology I’ve read about it. Conspiracy theory or canon, I like it and plan to keep it, but I don’t plan on any three-eyed raven let’s be king and exile Jon to the frozen north as a Night’s Watchmen after all the sacrifices he made to save the kingdom first from ice zombies and then from Daenerys’ reign of fire on the word of angry foreign soldiers. Hard no. And Bran will be trained but definitely not to creepy levels. From an actual plot/novel standpoint, it’s a great development. As a lover of the Stark family, I miss baby Bran who just wanted his family back together tbh.
> 
> Dark Sister has made an appearance, but it’s not the appearance. Meera and Aemon (and mostly Bloodraven) have no intention of giving it to her yet. She doesn’t need to like pull it from a stone King Arthur style but if I’ve got a seer, better let him do some actual work and punch his card for the day. The sword will reappear when Rhaenys needs it most. Like the sword of Gryffindor minus hat and swooping phoenix. Also, reminder, we’re almost to the end of regular postings. Next week will be the last week until probably after mid to late September when my new summer job tapers off because right now I barely have time to post and sleep, let alone get any writing done.


	27. Jon

When Jon Connington dies unexpectedly after days of deadly fever, Jon knows with uncomfortable certainty that the king will come north to Winterfell. The letter arrives within days, and Jon spends the vast majority of the day with his Aegon and Robb watching his mother demolish every person that spars against her in the training yard. From dawn until dusk when Arthur finally stops watching from the forge where he’s been keeping half an eye on her and teaching Aly, Arya, and Bran the finer points of blacksmithing. Arthur picks up a training sword and spends thirty minutes toying with her until he finally bats the sword out of her hand like it’s a toy and wraps in her in a hug while she falls against him in exhaustion.

The next day, his father instructs he and Jon until his mother emerges, and the adults seclude themselves in Uncle Ned’s solar until supper. It’s decided that Arthur, Lyanna, Ashara, and Benjen will visit Starfall and introduce the Daynes to Ashara’s husband and the kids. That Jon can’t go along was self-evident to everyone except Lyanna. He can’t leave the dragons alone in Winterfell, not even with Aegon who they like and respect but don’t unilaterally obey, and they’re too big to move south to Starfall without being noticed and too small to avoid be invulnerable if Doran or Oberyn Martell get wind of them. His mother cries and pleads with Jon and his father that they can find a way, but Jon is immoveable as is his father.

The dragons need Jon. The dragons can’t be moved. Jon stays with the dragons.

It’s nerve-wracking, certainly, meeting Rhaegar Targaryen, the man who’d sired him under some of the worst circumstance Jon has ever heard, especially without the support of his mother, his father, or his siblings. It’ll be the longest he’s ever been separated by them, and by the time they returned, Torrhen could be a whole other person, worlds different from the child he’d been when they leave. He spends the days before their departure withdrawn from his parents and Aegon, spending all his time with Torrhen and Aly or training with Blackfyre while his father observes and instructs but doesn’t intervene in his attempts to wrap his mind around this step he’ll have to take alone.

On the eve that they leave, his father tosses him Blackfyre and steps into the training yard, Dawn in hand. Their eyes meet, and Jon clenches his jaw with a nod, then they move. The spar is grueling, the biggest challenge Jon’s ever had, as it always is against his father, and it’s worse with live steel, a blade of a fallen star against Valyrian steel. His mother watches from beside Aegon, Aly in her lap and both Torrhen and Rickon in his while Benjen, Ned, Robb, and Benjen observe from the balcony with Arya perched on the railing beside them. They spar until his muscles ache, his heart pounds, and his lungs burn, until Jon drops the sword with tears in his eyes and leans his head against his father’s chest.

He’s too old for hugs, but his father hugs him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“There is nothing to fear, Jon. It may hurt, and you may be scared, but you’re not alone. You have your uncle and aunt, your cousins, your brother. And even though we won’t be here, you’ll have us. You will always have me and your mother and Aly and Torrhen, Benjen and Ashara, always. It will be emotional, but it’s not going to kill you, Jon, and you’re ready for answers.”

“What if I hate him? What if I can’t stand to be around him for weeks?”

“Then take your dragons and get on a ship to Starfall,” laughs his father. “You managed the Valyrian Peninsula and the Dothraki Sea without us. You can get to Starfall if you’re desperate, but you weren’t raised to run away because you’re upset. Your mother and I have our own issues with Rhaegar, but they’re not yours. You are not obligated to dislike him on our behalf. Your relationship with him, or lack of one, is all your own, and we’ll love you regardless of how you feel about him.”

“And mother?”

“Your mother will never have a relationship with Rhaegar, but she didn’t hide you from him because she believed he would hurt you, and she won’t begrudge you this chance to meet him not on a port in Volantis while hiding dragons.”

“I’m still hiding dragons.”

“Your mother’s just scared. She’s not upset with you, me a little, but not you.”

Jon looks back at his mother, tears rolling down her cheeks, but she wipes them away and hurries over to throw herself into Jon’s arms, hugging him with desperation and sobbing into his hair. His father rubs her back and presses a kiss to her temple. When his mother calms, she cups his face in her hands.

“I love you, I do, and Rhaegar isn’t going to change that. I just want you to be safe. Stay close to Ned. Stay close to Aegon. And gods above, keep the dragons hidden.” She turns to Aegon and raises her eyebrows while he offers her a cheeky smile. “Both of you.”

Six weeks before the king, the queen, and their retinue arrive, Jon, his cousins, and Aegon say tearful goodbyes to everyone. He hugs both his parents and accepts the kisses his mother smothers him in. His father has to pry Aly from where she’s sobbing and wrapped around Jon’s waist while Aegon reluctantly passes Torrhen into his mother’s arm, accepting the kiss she presses to his cheek and Torrhen copies with a soft smile and a blush. Jon waves goodbye to his family, feeling a pang in his chest; it’s the longest he’ll ever have been away from them, the only time he’s ever chosen to be separated from them.

Aegon and Robb give him no time to wallow.

Aegon drags him into long winded conversations about politics and infrastructure and economics that Jon has minimal interest in but enough knowledge to formulate intelligent replies. When he feels Jon’s particularly reticent, he drags him and the growing dragons out the Godswood to study them extensively, their development and their habits, which he was writing about and sending to some boy named Samwell in Horn Hill. Soon, they’d be big enough to ride, and Aegon was itching to jump on the back of a dragon and take to the air as no Targaryen had done for centuries.

Robb pulled him into lessons, into the training yard, off across the rolling hills on horseback, often with Aegon and Jojen or Arya, sometimes with Bran and even Rickon, occasionally Sansa.

In those weeks, Gendry Storm arrived from White Harbor courtesy of Ser Davos and took to the forge. He fell in quickly with Aegon, arguing over the properties of Valyrian steel and spending days holed up together in the forge trying to mimic and understand the qualities of creating it. Samwell Tarly sent a letter that he would be leaving Horn Hill for the Wall without stating this was by order of his father, though Aegon’s anger suggested it wasn’t as much the choice as Samwell Tarly presented it as. And Uncle Ned took them all to execute a brother of the Night’s Watch who’d abandoned his vows and spoke of walking dead men beyond the Wall that had Aegon and Jon sharing long looks over the swing of Uncle Ned’s sword. On the return to Winterfell, they found a direwolf struggling to give birth to pups, one for each of the Stark children, and a sixth, white as snow with ruby eyes, that meets Jon’s eyes and makes him fall instantly in love.

Aegon’s new favorite hobby becomes watching the direwolves play while Lady Catelyn goes apoplectic at the thought of them tearing out one of her children’s throat. Jon figures if the healing mother hasn’t bitten Aegon for sneaking into the kennels to pick up her pups and examine them, then the Stark children they’ve bonded with are safe.

Bran spots the caravan first and clambers down from the tower, hurrying out of the harness Aegon designed for him to shout that they were coming.

Lady Catelyn shuffles the children into the courtyard while the rest of the household follows with mulish expressions. Syrio Forel drags in Arya by her ear, Jon’s calico cat in arms and a thunderous look. She’s shoved in line between Sansa and Bran, Rickon hiding behind her mother’s skirts. Aegon stands at Uncle Ned’s side while Jon tries to sink into the background with Gendry and the rest of the household until Aegon reaches over and drags him over to stand between he and Ned.

Between his dependable uncle and his brother’s quiet confidence, Jon wrings his hands behind his back and leans into Aegon a little wish for his father’s quiet assurance and his mother’s protective ferocity, his aunt’s regal dignity, his Uncle Benjen’s calm wisdom.

Rhaegar Targaryen is recognizable from their brief, single meeting in Volantis when he’d asked about dragons and upset Jon’s father in a five-minute conversation. People say Aegon looks like him, but aside from the same silver hair and purple eyes that search the line of people, dimming a little until they alight on Aegon with relief and Jon with brooding melancholy, he doesn’t see much of a resemblance. Queen Elia is where Aegon’s facial features came from, Jon realizes, entirely his mother’s without her Dornish coloring, a perfect mix of his parents, along with them come Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys, the king’s brother and sister, the latter who offers regal smiles and the former who looks down her nose at the Starks and Winterfell with a smug sense of superiority. Queen Rhaella steps out as well with a beatific smile, eyes moving between Jon and Aegon, filled with tears.

Of the Kingsguard, each other them glances towards Jon with curious, inquisitive glances before looking away, but Prince Lewyn Martell, Jon can tell by the enraged glare that is leveled on him until Aegon stiffens and steps closer to Jon, heat of his body melting the ice of Jon’s chilly attitude.

The king and queen follow protocol to the letter, being introduced to each of the Stark children before greeting Lady Catelyn with required courtesy and Uncle Ned with a warm smile from Queen Elia and chilly disdain from King Rhaegar.

Aegon steps forward to greet his parents, a hug for his mother and a stoic nod for his father despite the stricken look on Rhaegar’s face. His attitudes towards his uncle and aunt are stranger still, awkward with his aunt, cool with his uncle, but his grandmother, Aegon greets with a wide smile, a hug, and a kiss on her cheek. His great uncle Lewyn also receives warm greetings, cordial and sweet welcomes extended to the retinue and the Kingsguard, even to Tyrion Lannister who’d traveled in company of his brother, Ser Jaime to see the Wall.

Jon stands uncomfortable beneath their attention, not meeting Queen Elia’s kind eyes or Rhaegar’s searching hopefulness or Viserys’ disdainful disgust or Daenerys’ quiet curiosity or Rhaella’s teary-eyed fascination.

“This is my nephew,” says Uncle Ned carefully, cautiously. “Jon.”

Everyone waits.

Jon wrings his hands behind his hand, chin raised, eyes forward and unseeing, and jaw clenched so tight that he feels a headache building.

“Prince Jon Targaryen,” announces Aegon defiantly, reappearing at Jon’s side and linking their arms with a bright smile. “My brother.”

Jon shrinks and tries to hide behind his uncle’s bulk, but Aegon holds him firm in the face of the silent retinue. Queen Elia offers a watery smile while Rhaegar stares at him without breathing. People look either enraged or wary. Daenerys’ face is granite, Viserys disgusted, and Rhaella optimistic. Aegon digs his blunted fingernails into Jon’s skin, but he neither flinches nor acknowledges the gesture.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” says Queen Elia with a wide smile, stepping forward to pull him into a hug that shocks everyone assembled as much as Jon. When she steps back, she puts a hand on Jon’s cheek. “You look so much like Ned.”

“So I’ve been told,” replies Jon in a tight voice.

“Rhaegar, greet your son properly,” orders Queen Elia.

“Jon,” says Rhaegar, choking up, “you look well.”

Jon clenches his jaw and nods.

“You look so like your mother.”

The words ring out clear across the training yard, and a horrified silence descends. Queen Elia, Rhaella, and Prince Lewyn look unsettled and distinctly offended. Daenerys purses her lips and stares at her brother with a modicum of disgust Jon hadn’t thought her capable of while a little smirk curls the ends of Viserys lips.

Aegon tenses, grip tightening enough to leave bruises.

Uncle Ned looks furious.

Jon rips his arm from Aegon’s hold.

“Jon,” says Aegon apologetically in time with Rhaegar’s frustrated pleading.

Shaking his head, Jon turns without offering his due courtesies and leaves without a single word, stealing Ghost from the kennel and riding bareback into the Godswood. He doesn’t return to Winterfell even after dark, retreating to the foot of the heart tree. He trusts Aegon to let the dragons out of the crypts and watches the cat play with Ghost with a small smile on her face.

“Don’t mistake me,” says a soft feminine voice that startles Jon from his private brooding, “it’s not about Lyanna.”

“Yes, it is.”

Queen Elia sighs and drifts closer, slim figure drowning beneath the heavy fur cloak.

“You have to understand—”

“No, I don’t,” says Jon coolly, looking up at her and killing the part of him that feels bad for Queen Elia and all that she’s endured. His mother played a major part in hurting her, and the past doesn’t die just because people want it to. But Queen Elia’s pain doesn’t mean he has to disavow his mother, to brush her beneath the bed like a torn tunic he’s outgrown to make everyone else feel more comfortable. “Lyanna Stark is my mother. She hurt you in ways I can’t imagine when she was the same age as me. My father won’t even let me carry a live blade when I’m not riding off to war, and let’s me spar with Valyrian steel only once a day, under his supervision in the training yard. At this age, if I was a woman I’d be sold into a marriage for political gain and a dowry and the betterment of my house whether I want to be or not, wedded and bedded and pregnant within in the year, if all went well. But I’m not a girl, much to Rhaegar and your brothers’ dismay. I’m a boy so I can travel safe and ride off to war and wield a sword without a fight, because there’s no reason for me to marry at this age. So I’m not going to apologize for my mother. I’m sorry she hurt you, but she birthed me and raised me and loved me when she didn’t have to, when she could have shunted me off to family as someone else’s bastard and run away to Essos. I will not hide her and refuse to say her name in my home to speak to everyone else’s sensibilities.”

Queen Elia stares at him patiently, hands folded in front of her and a tension in her frame that makes Jon feel guilty, though he holds his ground.

“You feel that strongly, even knowing your mother destroyed my marriage.”

“With all due respect, your Grace, your husband destroyed your marriage. My mother was unmarried. She was selfish and short-sighed and stupid in the way young girls like my cousin Sansa typically are, but if I’m forbidden to speak her name in the castle where she was born, where her family has ruled as the Kings of Winter for eight thousand years before House Martell was formed, before House Targaryen even crawled across the Narrow Sea to subjugate Seven Kingdoms and satisfy Aegon the Conqueror’s lust for power.”

“That’s enough,” says a third voice.

Jon’s eyes shift to Rhaegar Targaryen, approaching behind Queen Elia, but she doesn’t look like she needs his help, her chin rising a little higher in defiance of her husband as though he’s speaking to her and not Jon. So he returns his gaze to Elia.

“When is it enough? When do we forget old grudges and move forward as one kingdom? When can I speak my mother’s name in your presence without it being an insult to you? He didn’t love either of you. He did his duty, then abandoned it to chase a prophecy and continues to do so even now.”

“Jon,” hisses Rhaegar while Elia raises her hand.

“Have you finished?”

“Have you? I won’t apologize for my birth. I won’t shirk off my mother to save yours and Rhaegar’s faces. I won’t allow myself to be shackled with my father’s vaunted name and leave out my mother’s tainted one. Because it isn’t right, and it isn’t fair.”

“I cannot erase my pain for you,” says Elia, shaken but not angry.

Jon softens and nods, “And I can’t erase my mother for you.”

“I thought I was ready. I thought this would be easier, but you look like her, you have her ferocity.”

“Not usually,” admits Jon, “but I love her, flaws and all.”

Queen Elia nods and steps forward, taking his hand and squeezing. She pastes on a tremulous smile. “We’ll speak again. It will hurt, I imagine, but it will speak.” Jon inclines his head, and Elia pauses to look over at Rhaegar, “Remember yourself.”

They wait until Elia’s footsteps fade before their eyes meet.

“Is that what you think of me? That I didn’t love your mother? That I didn’t love Elia? That I didn’t love my children or want you? That I wouldn’t have moved mountains to bring you home if I’d known you were in Essos.”

“I think you would have,” says Jon, cold and angry for reasons he doesn’t understand. His parents have carefully explained each other their actions in the events leading up to his birth. They took responsibility, ensured that they weren’t innocent in anything, and yet faced with people with despise them wholeheartedly, Jon couldn’t help but feel defensive. It’s more complicated with Rhaegar, though; he’s illogically angry. “I think you’d have dragged me back and placed me into the same boxes as the rest of your children and siblings, with expectations that don’t fit my personality and strengths. I think you would have taken me from my mother without care for your wife’s reputation or my safety or my mother’s feelings because you don’t have any answers but you want to hold all the pieces.”

“I was misguided, and I was selfish. You don’t think I know that? You don’t think you and your mother were ever anything more to me than pieces in a prophecy?”

“I would kill any man who treated my sister the way you did my mother, prince or not.” Jon shakes his head and lifts Ghost into his lap. A stir moves through him, and he feels an alien presence in his mind, his dragon calling to him, moving about the forest with his brothers. He releases Ghost to guide them away with chirpy barks. “You dishonored your wife. You put your children at risk. You charmed my mother into a relationship that led to the death of her father and brother with no regard for her reputation or what would happen if you succeeded in your goals. You never considered for a moment she could bear any child other than your Visenya and didn’t care to consider what life would be like for a child born under those circumstances. You can’t love someone and never once consider the consequences, consider the potential risks to and in their lives.”

“Jon,” starts Rhaegar, hesitant and stricken, “I may not have been involved in your life, but I do love you. I just didn’t think. I was scared, Jon, I was so scared. I’m still scared.”

“We’re all scared, but we don’t all start wars to complete a prophecy to soothe our fears about some mythical darkness. It’s madness.”

Rhaegar’s face changes, hardens.

“It’s not.”

“It is. Being scared isn’t an excuse. A prophecy and your belief isn’t an excuse. All these years later, you’re still making excuses instead of taking responsibility for the mistakes you’ve made and how terribly wrong things could have gone. Worse than they did go. People act like my mother’s name is poison to speak, but they let you carry on with promised princes and prophecies.”

Rhaegar’s expression falls, frustration flitting across his face. He runs a hand over his silky silver locks looking every inch the minstrel dragon prince rather than the stoic warrior king everyone spoke of him as. The king that won that war, the king that repaired the damage left by his mad father, the king that saved the realm from the brink of disaster.

Except Queen Elia is the king that did all of those things while Rhaegar continued to chase prophecy and mold the people in his life into the images he sees of them in his head.

“You’re my son, and I’m trying to know you.”

“I don’t need a father. I had one who didn’t destroy the lives of everyone around him to bring me into the world and then pretend like he was a hero who saved a girl of five and ten from being burned alive by your mad father.” Rhaegar looks crushed, and Jon knows he should stop, but he can’t quite stop the words pour from him. He’s so angry. He’s angry that he’s stuck in Winterfell. He’s angry that everyone despises his mother. He’s angry that people still revere Rhaegar know what he’s done. He’s angry that people introduce him by the Targaryen name instead of still being just Jon. He’s angry Arthur isn’t his father and that everyone wishes Lyanna wasn’t his mother and the way people look at him like his very existence makes him the scum of the earth. He’s incensed for irrational reasons and can’t seem to cool his fiery temper. “You don’t want a son. You want a daughter. You don’t see any of us for who we are, only who you want us to be and then try to excuse your behavior instead of correcting your mistakes.”

“Jon,” says a softer voice. He half turns to see Aegon ghosting out of the Godswood with Ghost in arms. He transfers the direwolf to Jon and offers a shallow bow to Rhaegar. “Father,” he greets before taking Jon’s arm and extracting him from the conversation, “let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?”

Aegon turns to him with a brilliant smile and whispers: “Flying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not how I planned this chapter. It was supposed to be chill but sometimes real life takes over, and I think the story turns out better for it.
> 
> These are old wounds and a lot of tangled webs. It’s not the simplicity of his relationship with Aegon where both of them are logical enough to say they weren’t there or involved or their problem. Jon’s hurt and confused and excited and angry. It’s a lot of emotions on top of the intrinsic difficulties of Elia’s relationship with his, Rhaegar’s with both women, and What Jon’s existence means for everyone’s lives. It doesn’t make sense that Jon is defensive and upset, and he doesn’t mean to take it out on Elia but he!s not apologizing for his mother’s existence either.
> 
> On that note, I think Elia’s pain too is confused. She’s known about Jon, but it’s one thing to know and another to see the boy in the flesh. She looks like Lyanna and reminds her of Lyanna and she associates Lyanna with nothing good. She can separate Jon from Lyanna but it’s difficult especially when Jon is determined to remind everyone that it isn’t fair to dismiss what Rhaegar’s done and continue to condemn Lyanna. Elia is still doing better than Rhaegar who expects to be accepted when Jon has lived a life across the Narrow Sea with a happy if eccentric family. He doesn’t need a father, he has one, and from what he knows of Rhaegar, he’s far from welcoming, but I’ll address some of the specifics of Jon’s reticence towards Rhaegar in a later chapter.
> 
> I never had plans for Rhaegar and Lya to meet again. I think she’s been through a lot and wanting to see that exchange would be for us and not healthy for her. She’s in a good place with her family, her personal life, herself, and I think seeing Rhaegar would dredge up old wounds And confuse the peace she’s found personally when she is already in a vulnerable place as being Lyanna Stark in Westeros. So Davos has taken her, Arthur, Benjen, Ashara, and Arthur’s kids to Starfall to meet the Daynes. It’s important for Jon to take this step towards independence and still know his has family behind him and supporting him.


	28. Arianne

Arianne wished she’d never gone to Sunspear. She’d long since stop thinking highly of her father, but the more she’d spoken to him, the more she wished she’d spilled the whole story to her Aunt Elia instead of involving herself in the fear, rage, and ambition driving her father to unreasonable lengths.

The single thing Doran Martell did with any degree of success was control Theon Greyjoy. A lusty, arrogant cunt, that’s what Theon Greyjoy had been from the day Oberyn dragged him to Dorne in irons all the way to the present day, when Arianne respected her aunt’s authority enough not to run him through with the end of her spear. Death would be too good for him. He’d been held with ironclad control, a single supervised trip to a brothel a month, no time training or in lessons, never allowed to leave the halls of Sunspear or socialize with Quentyn or Trystane in any capacity. Viserys, not even her father could stop, but he was kept under lock and key until the day his uncle, Euron Greyjoy, sailed into port on his way to Essos.

The whole story poured out of her father after three days of finagling, threats to write to Rhaegar rather than Elia, and flaunting her relationship with Daemon in a manner that hinted at a potential elopement.

The story spilled out in a horrifying tale of familial love and reckless ambition and unintended betrayal, though her father hadn’t realized the extent of that until Arianne told him.

Uncle Oberyn had been sworn to secrecy about Jon Targaryen’s existence years earlier by Aunt Elia, but that didn’t stop her father from finding out in his own way.

A Dornish merchant had been visiting Norvos and found Ser Arthur Dayne running one of the most reputable blacksmith forge in the city. From there, a number of spies learned Arthur had spent years living in Braavos after the war, arriving on a Westerosi smuggler’s ship belonging to one Ser Davos Seaworth, knight granted a lordship by Stannis Baratheon for smuggling supplies into Storm’s End during the siege and hired to manage a fleet of merchant ships that increased the North’s wealth threefold in the last decade, in company of a lady wife and a son with the look of the North that occasionally came to the forge to work.

Her father had seen fit to leave well enough alone until three things happened to change his mind: first, Oberyn’s interest in the little boy Arianne once dug up snakes with along the Rhoyne prompted the Volantene triarch, Malaquo Maegyr, to demand Dorne stop investigating his granddaughter’s friends or receive harsh tariffs and potentially a halt on Dornish trade in Volantis; second, Arthur Dayne surfaced with a contract working for the Golden Company, his adopted princeling son squiring for Harry Strickland and earning the allegiance of yet another sellsword company, this time one with ties to dangerous Targaryen basards; third, a spy found a Golden Company steward withdrawing an heirloom from the Iron Bank and having it delivered to Qarth where it turned out to be the legendary Targaryen ancestral sword, Blackfyre, given to Lyanna Stark on behalf of the boy.

Then, he’d lost his mind just as Euron Greyjoy was arrested before he and his crew could rape and pillage off the Dornish coast. Euron, though, had made Doran an offer he couldn’t refuse, knowing as much about the boy being raised by the Sword of the Morning as Doran for whatever reason her father hadn’t seen fit to question. He would eliminate Jon Targaryen in exchange for a mere two things: his nephew, Rodrik Greyjoy’s, Valyrian steel dagger Tyene had acquired during the Greyjoy Rebellion and less restrictions for Theon, a chance to reconnect with his family even from a distance. At such a steal, her father had agreed easily enough. The dagger would go to Euron immediately, and Theon’s freedoms relaxed only after Jon Targaryen was confirmed dead. The condition was that Theon would travel with Euron to King’s Landing to hire Euron’s preferred catspaw.

Of course, instead the dagger had been used to pay Ramsay Snow to kill Aegon, its ties to the North by hearsay alone. Euron Greyjoy had sailed to Essos with someone else’s gold to pay a Faceless Man to assassinate Jon and pin that on Dorne. And when anybody search for motive, all they would see is a betrothal contract between Arianne and Viserys signed by Queen Rhaella and her father some years ago when he’d planned to replace her with Quentyn. She remembered that time well, when Aegon had gotten the pox and languished abed for weeks, few thinking he’d survive. She hadn’t known of the betrothal contract, only learnt of her father’s plans to replace her as princess of Dorne, but she supposed it made sense for a man of ambition. In Aegon’s death, it would have made Viserys heir and Arianne the second Dornish queen in a decade. Selfish but innocuous enough before the other ropes tightening around Dorne’s neck like a noose.

Who funded the plot, she suspected.

Who benefitted, she suspected that too.

She couldn’t prove anything, which was exactly the problem, but there was no longer an option to say nothing. Dorne, perhaps, could be saved. Elia would do her best, both princes were alive, and Eddard Stark was an honorable sort, but Dorne could no longer survive with Doran at its helm.

“You tried to murder a Targaryen because he was existing and excelling over in Essos!” Arianne had explained over her father’s protests she not tell.

“A bastard, that’s all.”

“He isn’t, though, not according to the law! You have put us all at risk over fear and anger at something that happened over a decade ago! You used grandmother’s friendship with Queen Rhaella and your dying nephew to springboard your kin back into power and brokered your heir like a whore to do so with the Mad King reborn! Mother was right,” said Arianne coldly, “what sort of man uses their own flesh and blood for personal advancement? You’re not different than Tywin Lannister or Petyr Baelish or Hoster Tully or Jon Arryn. You scorn them for playing the game, but that’s only because when you try, you let emotions blind you. I must go save our house from the knife you’ve put to our own back.”

Except he wouldn’t let her leave.

She expected that too, and she wasn’t some meek little girl content to be locked in lavish rooms to covers her father’s exceptional crimes. Unintentionally, her father could have helped start a war. If not for Thoros of Myr and Arthur Dayne’s training, everything could have gone so terribly wrong. If Dorne was discovered to have conspired to murder two heirs to the throne in favor of Viserys, what would have happened to her aunt? Hiding an annulment for more than a decade, the sister of the prince who’d set fire to the realm.

No, Arianne had to leave.

And leave she did through a window with two of her cousins, Obara and Nymeria, walking on foot to the nearest merchant to buy three horses and weapons. They couldn’t risk the sea, though ships would be quicker. If she went to the sea, her father would know and make every effort to intervene. Better to stay moving, by horse or by foot, and north they went passed that cursed Tower of Joy and along Prince’s Pass, following the road through the Kingswood until they reached King’s Landing, aching, dirty, and not having slowed since they passed the Dornish Marsh only to be told by Arianne’s ex-lover, Arys Oakheart, no one she wished to speak to was present.

Thrice-damned King Rhaegar had taken the entire royal family including her aunt and great uncle north to Winterfell, likely to ask Lord Eddard Stark to be the new Hand of the King. Another blow to her Dornish pride, especially when coupled with the fact that Rhaegar’s other son and other wife had been living in Winterfell almost two years now. She cooled her anger on the idea that her aunt quite liked and certainly trusted Lord Eddard Stark despite all the reasons she had to hate the entire family.

She couldn’t send a raven with this news, not when it could easily be intercepted by Jaime Lannister or Viserys. Like Rhaenys had requested, she would have to finally ride north, so Arianne sacrificed her gorgeous, luxurious Essosi fabric dresses for fur-lined cloaks, heavy tunics, and woolen breeches, then rode north in company of her cousins.

She was, it seemed, not destined to ever reach the north without incident, which she yet again found within the Crossroad’s Inn. She could never just enjoy a shepherd’s pie. She was midway through merely her fourth bite when a fight broke out closest to the kitchen, which was no shock in and of itself. Hot Pie, the cook’s apprentice extraordinaire, ducked into the kitchen as a man threw his glass at young man of great berth cowering in the corner, sheepish expression on his face, and head bowed in apology, though Arianne can see his lips still moving. Reclining in a seat nearby is a lithe, androgynous figure with flawless skin, long dark hair, and eyes fixed on the man who’d thrown the beer with something almost feral glinting in his eyes. He sips his ale and tilts back his head to stare up at the big man behind him.

Whatever he said, enraged the guy who’d thrown his cup so much that he lunged forward who the pretty boy moved to intervene, pressing a knife to his gut with a savage smile while his friend shuddered behind him.

Then the guy’s friends get up, cornering the two of them in a wall of guys, and Obara returns with a savage gleeful smile.

“No,” says Arianne, pointing a fork at her pie and whining, “I’m still eating.”

“Let’s go!” Nymeria grabs her hand and yanks her into the fight.

A fight that ends with the five of them sitting cross-legged outside the building with no pie, no ale, and no beds nursing bruises and cuts and bleeding noses. Except for the two boys who pass bread and water back and forth between them looking as though they’d been innocent bystanders rather than the people who started the fight in the first place.

“I can’t ever just eat my pie in peace,” sighs Arianne, tipping back her head while pretty boy laughs, both Obara and Nymeria eyeing him with interest while his friend looks uncomfortable beside him, either with Arianne’s comment or his friend’s unconscious yet overt sexuality. “What in Seven hells did you even say to him?”

“I…well…I…nothing,” he clears his throat. His friend snorts, and a stubborn expression crosses his face. “I didn’t say anything.”

“He tried to kill you,” points out Nym.

“Well, yes, he did.”

“Where are you headed?” Obara asks, biting in an apple and swatting Nym away when she creeps closer for a taste.

“North,” he answers while pretty boy takes a sip off the flask and shrugs.

“We saved your life,” says Arianne with annoyance. “I lost a pie for this.”

“Get over the pie,” mutters Nym with annoyance.

“I can buy you a pie,” says the boy while his friend gives him a dark look and Arianne brightens.

“Would you?”

“He wouldn’t,” says pretty boy coolly. Before either she or her cousins could speak, he continues, cutting them off. “You saved us. We didn’t ask you to. You chose to. It has nothing to do with us, so we’ll be on our way now, no names exchanged, no locations shared. Save your money, Sam. Princess Arianne Martell, heir to Sunspear, doesn’t need you to buy her pies. She can buy her own. We need that money more than her.”

“Satin Flowers,” says Arianne, snapping her fingers. Satin looks back at her over his shoulder with a smile growing on his lips. “I never thought you’d leave the Reach.”

“I was bound for Gulltown. My employer’s behavior made it prudent to find a new place of business.” He slants a look towards Sam, smile softening to something more natural and as pretty as her cousin, Aegon’s. “That was until I found, Sam here, Seven knows he’ll never make it to Winterfell without being robbed, gutted, or eaten by a bear.”

Sam looks startled, “Is that a possibility?”

Satin and Arianne share commiserating, bemused glances.

“I suppose White Harbor’s good a place any, and far enough from Littlefinger.”

“Winterfell?” Nym asks, glancing between Arianne and Sam.

“You’re not Samwell Tarly, are you?” Obara asks while Arianne studies Sam’s increasingly uncomfortable expression, and the way Satin smiles, a dangerous, feral look sliding back in his eyes. Arianne remembers the confidence with which he’d held the knife, the surety in his eyes that he would gut that man from nose and naval and not lose a wink of sleep. Satin may be the prettiest man she’d ever met, all sensuality and debonair charm, but he was dangerous. “Lord Randyll Tarly’s heir?”

“Well, now, that’s complicated,” say Sam, growing physically uncomfortable at the shift in the discussion.

Satin looks towards the sky and smiles, fingers moving like he’s itching for a knife.

“Nym,” says Arianne with a firm shake of her head.

“I was supposed to be going to the Wall by, um, choice,” volunteers Sam, shifting awkwardly when Nym and Obara stare at him in disbelief. Satin raises his chin, seething, and Arianne wonders how much was choice and how much was the cruel Randyll Tarly ridding himself of his disappointing firstborn in favor of his second son, Dickon. “But when I wrote—your cousin?” Arianne nods, and Sam continues. “When I wrote Aegon, some boy named Jojen told me to come straight Winterfell. That it would be handled upon my arrival.”

“We’re going there too,” says Arianne, holding Satin’s gaze rather than Sam’s, trying to reassure him that she intended to help not endanger him or Sam. “The king and queen are there.”

Sam pales while Satin pats his shoulder and declares in no certain terms: “We travel with them. And we’ll pool coin, but nothing fancy, yeah?”

Obara and Nym look offended while Arianne snorts and agrees on their behalf.

The trip is easier with Sam and Satin. Sam is a scholar, filled with information and advice with a photographic memory that allowed him to help them navigate the journey across Westeros with minimal trouble. Satin’s a survivor that negotiates better than any merchant Arianne has ever dealt with and found a man willing to ferry them across the river at a fraction of what it would cost to cross the Twins. Sam makes mention that the crown ought to build more bridges to decrease the Frey’s ability to control river crossing, and Arianne smiles, reminded of Aegon’s similar comments and that this is the boy he crafted his extraordinary plans with.

Satin, though, is the true surprise.

It’s clear that aside from a knife, Satin’s never held a weapon before in his life. But he’s clever enough to engage in intellectual discussions with Arianne and Sam even if he doesn’t understand technical words and specifics, and vicious enough to learn the sword and spear at rates that impress even Obara. That he can read, however poorly, is a shock in and of itself so Sam sets to improving his literacy while Arianne and her cousins work to improve his ability to defend himself at the very least. He’ll never be brilliant with a sword, like Aegon, but both of them ought to have a rudimentary knowledge of self-defense, even if they have sisters like Rhaenys or friends like Satin willing to do so for them.

Arianne finds a strange kinship with Satin.

They speak of their childhoods, hers in Sunspear and his in a whorehouse in the Reach. Where she’d been an ugly, pudgy childhood praying for beauty common to her family, Satin had been beautiful praying for an awkward, even off-putting puberty to avoid his inherited career. Arianne had gotten her wish, but Satin hadn’t gotten his. Arianne lost her mother in soured passion and unsustainable love while Satin lost his to disease typical to those of her profession, leaving them both alone and vulnerable. Arianne’s father was as ambitious as his mother if not more, and Satin’s was nonexistent. But they both had found through betrayal and heartbreak and pain that sex and sensuality could be wielded as weapons.

Arianne liked to say handsome men were her weakness, laugh about it like a joke, but Satin had leveled her with a sobering, knowing look and said: “Taking handsome men to bed isn’t a weakness. It’s a weakness when you let them into your heart and trust them not to hurt you, and I doubt you even remember what that’s like.”

She’d wanted to argue that she trusted her Uncle Oberyn, but she never told him everything because she didn’t trust his reckless, hotheadedness. She trusted her cousin, Aegon, but she didn’t trust him to know everything about her and not turn away in disgust and disappointment. She trusted her brother, Trystane, but he was little more than a child and beholden to the father she certainly didn’t trust besides. She trusted Daemon even, but only in some things and only some times.

She thought she could learn to trust Satin, though. There was nothing sexual between them despite what Obara and Nymeria seemed to think of their developing closeness, but Sam knew better, regarding them with sad eyes that somehow didn’t contain pity, like he understood why they’d found kinship in each other and simply felt sad at what the world had created in them. Satin had the bearing of royalty but the harsh realism of smallfolk. It intrigued Arianne just as it intrigued Arianne to watch him work men who’d never looked sideways at a male before, getting whatever he wanted with soft smiles, coy glances, and his sultry drawl. Arianne had slow clapped the first time she’d witnessed it, and Satin had shoved the deer meat purchased for a fraction of the price into her arms and said since he did all the work to catch dinner, she’d have to cook.

They were an odd sort of traveling companions, but it worked well enough. Arianne found herself enjoying her trip north until they reached the ruins of Moat Cailin where they find Brienne of Tarth, Thoros of Myr, Lord Beric Dondarrion, and yound Edric Dayne waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, someone insulted my research skills a couple days ago about my Arianne research because in a world where Elia was queen Arianne wouldn’t have been the way she was in the book because of Doran’s apparent betrayal and backdoor negotiating to make her a queen. This chapter was already written then, but I did my research, okay? And why Arianne is the way she is in the books is on the ASoIaF wikia page, just fyi. Anyway, I believe some characters need to be the way they are in canon to make certain decisions. There are things that I can do that could happen to make them experience similar problems in different circumstances.
> 
> Like Arianne. In this AU, she was still under the impression Doran was trying to pass her over. She found out young and never tried to clarify but it was because during a bout of childhood illness if Aegon he negotiated a betrothal contract with Rhaella (and Rhaegar, just fyi) to make her queen if Aegon died. She didn’t know but that’s why he planned on passing her over, but in my opinion, it’s still a betrayal. In Dorne she would be the ruler in her own right, marrying her off just makes her someone’s royal wife unless that man is willing to share power. She has no guarantees, especially with a husband like Viserys.
> 
> I feel so bad reading all this back since the hiatus is coming soon. These chapters are all setup for the drama of the coup following as close to canon as possible, Lya and Elia meeting, Rhaegar’s death, ice zombies, and the sibs meeting in the far far north with wildlings and dragons...but we’re definitely not going to get to all of that. Two chapters friday but, hey, who knows my company in Alaska has been temporarily shit down due to a town-wide outbreak and the city council is deciding whether we can even have a rest of season so you may see me way sooner than expected. We shall see.


	29. Ned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ages were requested because I got lazy about dates. This chapter gets back on the canon timeline so it’s 298AC, the same year King Robert goes to Winterfell and Jon Arryn dies.
> 
> Targaryens: Rhaenys (18), Aegon (16), Jon (15)  
> Starks: Robb (15), Sansa (12), Arya (9), Bran (8), Rickon (3)  
> Alysanne Dayne (aprx. 8), Torrhen Dayne (Aprx. 3-4)  
> Arianne (22)  
> Satin Flowers (18)  
> Samwell Tarly (15)  
> Brienne of Tarth (18)  
> Meera Reed (15)  
> Jojen Reed (12)

His lady wife’s enjoyment of having the royal family in Winterfell faded with the same sobering disappointment of having Crown Prince Aegon share a household with Sansa, except this disappointment was swifter and reassuring. The coin it cost to feed the royal party was sobering all its own, but of all their guests only Queen Dowager Rhaella Targaryen was quite to his lady wife’s tastes, kind, gentle, a proper lady. King Rhaegar she considered fanciful, Prince Viserys a boar, and Princess Daenerys a tad too eccentric, too revolutionary minded who spoke to Old Nan of the wheel of injustice and asked too many questions of how folk lives beyond the wall. Queen Elia, his wife thought her too headstrong, too controlling, too much a woman who didn’t know her place was not to lord above her husband no matter how much Ned insisted the realm was all the better for it. It helped little that Arya idolized the queen with the same wide-eyed wonder she had Lyanna except this time Sansa followed suit, illusions never disturbed by seeing her wear breeches or pass off the children to be tended by her husband.

The money Ned could admit they hadn’t the coin for, but the opportunity to speak with Queen Elia directly, to mend the wounds still open between their families now that Lyanna had returned was priceless. As was the chance to see Rhaegar try and mend his relationships with both his sons.

Aegon was not resistant, merely reluctant, cold and supercilious as though he thought his father’s interest disingenuous. He asked the man forthright if his sudden interest stemmed from Aegon’s murder and resurrection months ago, and when Rhaegar was too stricken to reply, Aegon turned to Ned and asked after the Red Priest who’d saved his life. Ned couldn’t answer because Thoros was not a prisoner, he left occasionally, even frequently lately, but it didn’t trouble Ned as the man always returned. Rhaegar had asked if Aegon studied any of the old legends, and Aegon’s expression had shuttered as he replied he had no need of fairytales when real work needed to be accomplished.

_Why can Westeros not achieve the might of Old Valyria? Are we thinking too small or thinking too selfishly?_

Despite trying with Aegon, Rhaegar still pushed him into the sparring ring every morn with Jon and Robb while Queen Elia watched with stone-faced silence and the coiled anger of a viper, sipping tea with Sansa and catching Jojen Reed’s eye with a soft smile. Robb’s motions were half-hearted at best whereas Jon tried to help Aegon, a patient teacher in manner that surprised Ned as his nephew had shown a tendency towards Ser Arthur’s impatient style of training, but Ned supposed it came from a mixture of brotherly affection and the simple fact that Jon wasn’t teaching Aegon to be a swordsman, like Arthur he was teaching the boy how to defend, which softened Jon to Queen Elia considerably.

Jon was avoidant of Rhaegar’s attempts to connect. He made himself as busy as possible: training in the morning, holing himself up with Ned and Elia and Aegon, teaching Arya and Bran to ride, attending Arya’s water dancing lessons and Bran’s archery lessons, escorting Queen Elia or Queen Rhaella or Princess Daenerys on walks through the Godswood with Ghost. He spoke to everyone except Rhaegar, even Viserys, and it was painfully clear that however much Rhaegar wished to be a father to his son, Jon had no need of one.

Every day letters arrived from Starfall addressed to him: Lyanna, Benjen, Ashara, Alysanne, but most often Arthur. He poured over the letters and wrote out careful replies all while giving Rhaegar almost nothing, very little acknowledgement and even less forgiveness.

It was bewildering to see in a child whose idea of family was long, unwieldy, and unorthodox. There was nothing Jon held higher in esteem than his family, could forgive them any faults even Catelyn who sometimes looked at him as though he was a bug albeit a poisonous one who could kill her family in his sleep. He made an effort to connect with his people, his pack, finding common ground with everyone, even Queen Elia, even the remote Princess Daenerys, even Queen Elia’s uncle Lewyn who couldn’t resist Jon’s somber charm for long. Jon collected hearts like Varys collected little birds except when it came to Rhaegar Targaryen, and despite all the man’s many sins, Ned could not understand why.

Then King Rhaegar Targaryen asked Ned to be the Hand of the King.

“It’s a terrible idea,” says Ned automatically, shaking his head. “What of Tywin Lannister?”

“Tywin Lannister,” scoffs Rhaegar. “As if any man would trust Tywin Lannister at his back. He has been angling for many a year to seat his own blood on the throne. With all that he’s worked for in sight, I think he’ll not stop there.”

Ned can’t help but agree.

“It would be an insult to Dorne.”

“Elia would never allow her brothers to destroy peace in the realm over such a small, perceived slight, and she knows I trust her brothers at my back as much as I trust Tywin. I’d not trust Doran or even Elia’s lady mother, Seven rest her soul, before everything turned to ash. My mother might have loved that woman, considered her as close a friend as Joanna Lannister, but I am not my mother and whatever else she was, she was ambitious. Her son a prince of Dorne, her daughter a queen despite the risks to her health, it’s only Qyburn’s efforts that have kept her alive so long, gods know Pycelle helps none anywhere but to the grave. They say love is the death of duty, but it’s ambition that could set the world ablaze.”

It’s gracious enough that makes Ned makes no mention of how Rhaegar’s own ambitions have done much the same.

“Starks don’t do well in the south, your Grace. We are made for the North.”

At this, Rhaegar flinches, a sad smile spreading across his face.

“That’s the rub of it, isn’t it? Brandon, your father, Lyanna. Every time Starks venture south they wind up dead or hidden away in Dornish towers.” Ned doesn’t answer, but Rhaegar doesn’t need him to. “I’ve had ample time to consider the situation, and certainly Elia’s made no secret of her disdain for my actions, abysmal as they were. I was young and scared and certain that was the path forward to save us all. Now that I see Jon, I’m still certain. I have, perhaps, been wrong in a great many things, but I am not wrong about the Long Night, about the war for dawn, about the three-headed dragon. Whether or not Jon relates to this, I couldn’t say, but our families had an agreement long ago to wed a Targaryen princess into House Stark. This house has married so many houses into it, you’re more the blood of Westeros than the Targaryens by far, and I’ve offered wondered why. Why must there always be a Stark in Winterfell? Why marry a princess into House Stark rather than reach with more ambition? I believe Jon will give us the answers.”

This, Ned realizes with clarity, is why Jon will not reach out to Rhaegar. 

Rhaegar Targaryen has all Aegon’s best qualities without any of that tempered, focused nature inherited from Queen Elia. He is smart and curious and dogged in his quest for knowledge, but it supercedes all logic, all decency, all common sense. In Rhaegar that unquenchable thirst for knowledge and truth is twisted and blackened into something unrecognizable and horrific. Even now, Rhaegar does not know when to stop seeing people as pawns.

“Did you ever love her? My sister?” _Or was all of this just a cyvasse game to you?_

“I was infatuated, enraptured, delighted,” sighs Rhaegar with a slight smile but lacking the warmth Ned sees in Arthur when he speaks of Lyanna even when he’s complaining about her, the softness in Benjen’s eyes as he scolds Ashara over some miscommunication or another. Rhaegar Targaryen was never in love with his Lady Lyanna, and yet the whole realm bled for it just the same. “But I just don’t know. What even is love?”

Rhaegar shakes his head, and Ned retreats.

He finds Aegon and Jojen and Bran with Old Nan and Hodor listening to stories of the North’s histories. He finds Jon and Robb and Arya peppering Syrio Forel with questions in the training yard. He finds Rhaella and Sansa and Daenerys walking in the glass gardens while Ser Bonifer Hasty spins tales of Essos.

Then Queen Elia finds him, extricating herself from quiet conversation with his wife and requesting he show her some of the North he’s written about so diligently in his letters.

Their horses are saddled, Prince Lewyn summoned, and appropriate people informed, though Elia seems amused at the thought of Rhaegar caring with whom she chooses to leave with and whether or not it’s so unseemly.

“Half of King’s Landing thinks I’m rotating the King’s Guard through my bed and not a single person thinks ill of me for it,” she confides. “And my dear husband,” her words drip sarcasm, “cares even less than the people of King’s Landing.”

And so out they ride, through Wintertown where Queen Elia asks questions about population, road conditions, housing and food stores for winter, changes in its population during the winter season until they exit the town to the rolling green hills of the North, endless blue sky stretching above them. Snow has gathered in unmelted patches on the ground that Ned tells Queen Elia and her uncle to wary of, but the queen smiles and whoops with joy before nudging her horse forward, to race over the hills, unpinning her hair mid-stride to let the tendrils flare out behind her and stream through the wind.

Ned follows at a more sedate pace, smile spreading across his face as he shakes his head.

When he crests the hill, she’s waiting for him, windswept and ruddy-cheeked, dark eyes sparkling with hidden amusement.

“The North is so different from Dorne, and yet so alike,” sighs Queen Elia, “I can see why you don’t wish to leave.” She slants him a thoughtful look that makes him as uncomfortable as Lyanna’s conspiratorial ones from their childhood. “I’ve heard you courted my dear friend, Lady Ashara, in your youth. Is that true?”

“It is,” shrugs Ned, uncertain how truthful he wants to allow himself to become.

“Rhaegar’s obsessions forever alter births and marriages across the continent, I see,” states Elia dryly. “But I suppose ambition does that just as well. You married Lady Catelyn for alliances, and I married Rhaegar for a throne. And we both lost who we wanted doing our duty.”

“And who did you want?”

Queen Elia flushes, “Baelor Hightower.”

“Truly?”

“He was an excellent catch back then!” Elia defends with a smile and shake of her head, “But, by the Seven, his _laugh_. Oberyn would not let me forget. In any case, I thought Rhaegar was perfect. He made my mother happy, advanced Dorne’s position, and would be an honorable husband at least. How wrong I was,” shrugs Elia, “and how did you find Lady Catelyn?”

“Southern,” replies Ned honestly while Elia smirks and shrugs. “Haughty, cold, and entirely infatuated by my brother. Heartbroken over his death. Disappointed to by marrying the boring second son. Distant and superior.”

“How times have changed,” mutters Elia with a soft smile.

“Not all that much,” admits Ned with a shrug. “We’ve grown used to each other, grown to love each other in a manner that is deep but not particularly passionate, not all-consuming. Not like my sister and Arthur, my brother and Ashara, your brother and his Ellaria. She is still very southern and wants our children to be as well. Sansa and Arya proper ladies to sell into marriage south. Robb a strong lord with a southern lady. We are, I think, still Northern savages in most ways to her. It’s not what I wanted, but I did not wed a harpy like Cersei Lannister or a greedy wretch like Lynesse Hightower. We’ve come to love and respect and trust each other, and that is enough. I’m not so idealistic as I was in my youth.”

“None of us are,” agrees Elia with an awkward half-smile. “But I really must protest your assertion that you respect and trust your wife. Did she even know of your sister and nephew until they arrived?” Ned flushes, and Elia clucks her tongue at him. “Badly done, Ned.”

“I didn’t know her.”

“For fourteen years?” She slants him a doubtful look, and Ned shrugs sheepishly. “They say love is the death of duty, but I think it’s only true because we create a world where love and duty cannot coexist. All our lives, we strive for love of our peers and parents, most of whom see us merely as a means to an end, even if they love us they still hold expectations of us to advance our house at personal sacrifice to ourself. Your brother to marry Catelyn rather than carousing. Your sister to marry Robert Baratheon rather than freedom. Myself to marry Rhaegar rather than Baelor or a man who could afford not to use me and my frail body as a broodmare. I want more for my kids as I imagine you do for yours.”

Ned inclines his head.

“Rhaenys won’t marry a man until she finds one who accepts her restless spirit, whether he is highborn or otherwise. Aegon is wed to knowledge and may take an occasional woman to his bed, but I doubt will ever take one into his heart. Jon may be the best hope the Targaryens have to propagating the next generation, but even then after growing up with parents that love each other, he’ll most assuredly hold out for a love match.”

Ned smiles in agreement.

“I want that for them, but the realm will not.”

“Blast the realm,” says Ned, startling Elia. He shrugs. “The smallfolk care little for the games highborns play so long as they place food on the table and coin in their pockets. Highborns will care how far they can advance themselves through these children, but it’s our duty and pleasure to protect them from the same fates as us. Perhaps it’s time for the realm to change, to put our children’s lives first rather than their family’s positions and their Houses futures.”

“This is why I need you in King’s Landing.”

“Your Grace,” sighs Ned.

“My lord,” teases Elia before her expression sobers. “Something is afoot, but I can’t place what malevolence this is. Connington was poisoned. Qyburn is certain of it, has never seen anything but poison burn that fast through a man. My brother can only do so much to help when neither Rhaegar nor most of the Small Council trust him.”

“Elia,” protests Ned weakly.

“Ned,” pleads Elia, “I need a Hand willing to work with me for the good of the people, for the good of the realm.”

“I’m not good at politics, your Grace, and I don’t much want to be.”

“I’m good at politics, Ned. Varys is good at information. I need you to be a steadying hand, a moral compass, and to stand beside me while we prepare for a long winter. The lords don’t care, Ned. Rhaegar cares only about his prophecy. Doran is certain this winter won’t affect Dorne in any measurable way. Only possession of Theon Greyjoy holds Baelon in check and Euron’s off doing all manner of horrible things. The crown’s in debt to the Iron Bank thanks to Rhaegar’s research projects. I could manage by myself, but it would be faster if I had help, an ally in the Small Council who saw me as something other than Rhaegar Targaryen’s overreaching wife.”

Ned feels his resolve giving way beneath her arguments. She’s politically saavy, and Ned knows the North. There is years of trust and friendship between them. He hasn’t had such a friend since Robert Baratheon, and this relationship is much more mature, based not on youthful bonds of brotherhood and proximity but respect, admiration, and trust. The Small Council is made up of men with divided loyalties: Pycelle is questionable, Littlefinger only to himself, Lucerys Velaryon to Rhaegar, Varys (allegedly) to the people, and Stannis Baratheon to the king alone and the laws more abstractly. Connington had undoubtedly been Rhaegar’s man, and Oberyn’s position as an advisor is transient and not firm considering how he alienates most rational people with his poisons, his brood of illegitimate Sand Snakes, and his poisons. Ned is steadfast, honorable, and well-liked quite unlike Tywin or Oberyn.

“My daughters—” he argues weakly.

“Will be well cared for. Bring Syrio Forel, and Arya can train with Kingsguard and a First Sword of Braavos. Sansa can come and be a companion for Daenerys while she’s in residence alongside Jeyne Poole and Myrcella Baratheon. It’ll be good for her. Your wife wants her to be a proper southern lady and has enchanted her with songs and sonnets of knights and princes, which has created a dangerous naivety, you know it as well as I. Perhaps some time in King’s Landing away from her mother’s stories and surrounded by the poison-tongued southern ladies and oathbreaking knights may do her some good.”

A small smile slips across Ned’s face at this assertion. He certainly can’t deny Elia, as often, is correct. He can’t deny his lady wife has hobbled the development of their children in much the same manner that Rhaegar has attempted with Elia’s, except where she managed to thwart him, Ned had hoped and trusted his children had the good sense to remain unaffected. Robb, he may have succeeded with, but Sansa is all naïve southern lady unprepared for life in the North or even the viper’s nest of the south she dreams of. Arya is at odds with her sex longing to be who she is and angry at her mother’s refusal to allow this. Bran is as wild as his sister and defiant to Catelyn’s attempts to tame and hamper him. Rickon, at least, is young enough to be unaffected.

“Ned,” says Elia, taking his hand and holding his gaze, “say yes.”

Ned opens his mouth and hesitates.

His answer is interrupted by the thunder of hooves approaching. Prince Lewyn appears, sword drawn, but the figure that sits astride is no threat but a pale-faced wide-eyes Jon, hair tousled and face flushed, panicked.

“Uncle Ned, it’s Bran.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know why I found the idea of Ned and Elia being these really solid friends so comforting, but I did. I think in this story they’re both very reliable, they shoulder too much because they have to and they experience situations in similar ways and react with comparable aplomb. They also both have very good energy and very interesting marriages and this deep, abiding love for their children in whatever and whoever they choose to be.
> 
> I think it’s important for Ned to understand why Jon, who loves his eclectic family, can’t deal with Rhaegar. Elia and Ned are planning for winter. They’re thinking food, travel, logistics, how do our people survive the upcoming winter after a long summer whose length we cannot predict. Rhaegar is thinking ice monsters and mythical beasts and ancient prophecy, and even though Rhaegar is trying to connect with his children, he’s still largely driven by this prophecy. Jon sees how he is with Aegon and why would he want to put himself in that situation? He grew up with a father that loved him unconditionally, even knowing they shared no blood or kinship, and all of Rhaegar’s love comes with conditions. Jon was raised by practical people and knows there is no reason to put himself in that situation. And I think that’s important too, that Elia and Rhaegar are dealing with the same situation in radically different ways. Rhaegar sees myths, and just because we as an audience know it’s true doesn’t mean he isn’t being Chicken Little crazy, and Elia sees people that have to eat before and after a war with ice zombies.
> 
> We all had some interesting discussions about Catelyn’s parenting skills, but I’d love to hear ya’lls thoughts about her and Ned’s marriage. It was loving, but I really do wonder how much the loved each other. Enough to have five kids obviously, but my grandparents had four because he accidentally knocked her up back in the 60s and at most I’d say they’re fond and used to each other. I think it says a lot that after all those years, he told her nothing about Jon. It implies a lack of trust that I find troubling if we’re going to say he loved her deeply, especially when considering how she treated Jon after the fact, how she behaved towards the North, and her blatant disregard for the ways of the Northern people. There might have been love, but there was also an intrinsic level of disrespect and distrust that makes it hard for me to jump on the ‘they were so in love’ train. But that’s just me.


	30. Rhaenys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this is where I temporarily leave you...

The list of things Rhaenys spent her life preparing for did not in any way account for being abducted by wildings. This, she supposed, could be pinpointed at her own lust for adventure rather than any fault on the part of the Night’s Watch or even Meera. After all, when Meera returned in company of Maester Aemon from a two week jaunt north of the Wall, Rhaenys could feel nothing but envy. Her whole life she’d longed for adventures. She’d traveled to Essos, from Sunspear in the south to Castle Black in the north. She’d seen Pentos and Lys and Tyrosh and Volantis, dined with magisters and triarchs, watched Dothraki horselords accept tribute from behind the walls of expensive manses.

Even her mother who allowed her much freedoms, contained the worst of her wildness.

Rhaenys wanted to ride across the Dothraki Sea with a khalasar, sail the oceans with pirates, traverse the lands of endless winter with wildlings.

Or, perhaps, she wanted to do those things because her father wanted her to be more like Daenerys. Thoughtful, introspective, circumspect. Aunt Daenerys was a lady like Rhaenys’ own mother except nowhere near as calculating, as imposing, as dangerous. Rhaenys would never tolerate artless conversation, tittering nobility, or idle gossip near so well as Daenerys. She cared little frivolity and preferred the company of men, not unlike her cousin Arianne, who found men of most quality tended to speak in straightforward barbs rather than honeyed daggers as women. There was near as much trickery but not as much trifle, and Rhaenys appreciated the difference.

Aegon thought she disliked the company of women and longed for adventure because Rhaenys wanted to be contrary to hide her insecurities.

Rhaenys didn’t consider herself any great beauty; she was pretty enough, exotic in her Dornish complexion and sexy in her shapeliness. Yet she didn’t captivate as Daenerys, wasn’t ethereal as her mother, wasn’t as lovely as she’d heard of Sansa Stark. Arianne was striking. Margaery Tyrell known to be gorgeous. Myrcella Baratheon known to be a perfect golden-haired beauty like her siren lady mother. Rhaenys thought herself perfectly ordinary in looks, extraordinary in diplomacy, and exceptional in swordsmanship. Aegon thought she placed herself outside the sphere of her gender contemporaries so as never to set herself beside them and fail to measure up.

Egg thought she didn’t want adventure so much as their father—and Westeros’—respect and acknowledgement.

The longer Rhaenys had been in the north, the more she thought Aegon might have been something resembling correct, though she’d never say such a thing to him.

In Dorne, Rhaenys was surrounded by beautiful warrior women, which perhaps made her feel somewhat inadequate by comparison.

In the North, the women were fierce but no great beauties, perfectly adequate as she felt she was, and placed not much import on their physical beauty aside from, she’d heard, Lady Catelyn Stark who’d come to the North by way of Riverrun. They were a harsh, straightforward, honorable people, though not so much as they laughed about in the south. The things expected from Rhaenys in the north were things she could live up to with some degree or strive to achieve should she not possess them already: honor, integrity, grit, resilience. She was expected to do her duty, learn well, and fight for her friends as well as herself. Not doing so didn’t earn censure or scorn, but a keen disappointment from Lady Maege that pushed her to better herself without such cruelty.

_The North remembers._

Her mother had said the words to her in warning before she left for Bear Island, but while their disdain and distrust for Targaryens remained deep and abiding, Rhaenys found she could earn their appreciation and respect in a way not commonly felt throughout the rest of Westeros. Doing her duty, learning well, defending herself and her friends, earned her approval and deep admiration that the north would remember as surely as her father tearing the realm apart for Lady Lyanna Stark, dishonoring her and the Starks grievously—few talked of her mother here, though not out of callous dislike but rather of simple disinterest, they didn’t know Queen Elia as they’d keenly known Lady Lyanna, she wasn’t theirs as Lady Lyanna had been.

Still, despite these starting realizations, Rhaenys longed to see the lands beyond the Wall with a passion that seemed almost unthinkable, unquenchable. She wanted this, certainly, with passion that seemed shocking and circumspect. She wanted to look out across that seemingly endless landscape of ivory and emerald at the lands of endless winter and dramatic mountain ranges that stretched on for miles. She wanted to breathe the landscape into her very being the way she could with the salt and sands of Dorne, but where Dorne was a part of her, its red sands and wild people flowing through her veins, the North wasn’t hers. The desire to understand it was a choice all her own.

Northerners were not so superior as southerners and yet not so free as the Dornish. They were wild and untamable but in a different manner than her people at the opposite end of Westeros. They were isolated by geography as much as choice, honorable in their own way, and disinterested in politics only insofar as it pertained to anything south of the Neck. That Lady Catelyn Tully’s wedding to Lord Brandon Stark, results notwithstanding, needed no declarations of its being a scheme to forge ties subverting King Aerys. The longer Rhaenys enjoyed her stay in the North, the longer Rhaenys realized the only thing differentiating Dorne from the North was the North’s lack of southern ambition. They had their own intrigues and feuds and power plays, their legendary honor as much a charade of superiority to southern kingmakers and kingslayers as it was designed to forge ties amongst their own.

Because winter wasn’t just coming in the North, it never truly left.

Winter hangs in the air like a creeping morning fog off a river, arriving and receding with no warning but leaving untold dangers in its wake.

Every day northerners woke to brisk chills and sometimes morning frost across the endless moors and remembered winter was coming. They tended their children and households as they tended to the food in their glass gardens, made their people strong and able to survive because while winter would cripple the south, it could devour the north. They were a strong, hardy people because they had to be, preoccupied more with food and survival and defense than southern politicking and thrones because they had to be, remembering each slight dealt upon them from outsider because, much like Rhaenys and her family, when winter came, all they may have is each other. They might bicker and scheme and feud amongst each other, but they remembered well enough that they were all of the North, of the First Men, just as Rhaenys came from the Rhoynar and Old Valyria, and it may well be that none would care of their suffering in the early stages of winter until the frost froze the last harvest in the Reach.

Dorne and the North, Rhaenys thought, were not so dissimilar, however much the suggestion might rankle even her uncle’s proud Dornish sensibilities. Even Arianne, whose own biases seemed far less than Uncle Oberyn’s, might turn up her nose at the mere suggestion. This was a kingdom that had not kowtowed in the wake of Lyanna Stark’s disgrace of Queen Elia of Dorne, Rhaenys’ own mother; they had closed ranks and challenged Dorne to cut ties with the North. Her mother had not allowed the rift between kingdoms to fester, but Rhaenys quite understood the North now that she’d lived amongst them. They might kowtow to Queen Elia Targaryen upon whom the slight had been bestowed, but Lyanna Stark was blood of the First Men, a descendant of the Kings of Winter, a Northerner, to bow to Dorne would castigate her in the eyes of the entirety of Westeros. They stood by their own.

Even still, venturing beyond the Wall was a dangerous endeavor.

Every day of their stay at Castle Black, Rhaenys and Meera had bickered, argued in tense whispers and heated exchanges over all manner of book and maps and ledgers, over Rhaenys’ notations to her mother over the finances and status of the Night’s Watch and renovations to make the worst of the castles habitable, over letters to Aegon about the profitability of the Gift to the Night’s Watch if only wildling attacks could become less frequent, over her morning cup of tea and their morning meals. They argued in the training yard where they sparred together and with a variety of the new recruits, and they argued even in their room, turning down the covers bed.

While Rhaenys was growing to consider Meera, perhaps, the dearest of her friends, certainly of the ones not blood related to her, she grew increasingly angry at Meera’s stubborn refusal allow her even a glimpse of the lands beyond the Wall, lands Meera spent near a fortnight traversing with none but a blind, aging maester for company and protection. If Meera managed to hunt, navigate, and protect the two of them on whatever journey they’d alighted upon, surely Rhaenys and Meera could manage a few hours together exploring the lands beyond the wall.

Meera had said no, shoved a newly forged, slight training sword in her hand, and ordered her to practice her swordsmanship.

How they’d arrived in their current predicament, though, could be blamed entirely upon Rhaenys.

The Mormonts, having returned to Bear Island a sennight earlier to meet with Domeric Bolton and his father Lord Roose on business, left them without an escort. Lord Commander Mormont made a generous if mutually beneficial offer to send a steward, Eddison Tollett, Othell Yarwyck, and Jaremy Rykker along with them as far as Westwatch-by-the-Bridge while Othell Yarwyck did an inspection of the repairs, renovations, and men newly stationed at the castles along the wall for the Warden of the North and the Queen. Having company made the journey longer and far more arduous than Rhaenys considered in any way necessary, though Edd proved decent company enough with his black humor and droll commentary.

Nightfort was her intended target, Nightfort and the Black Gate with a weirwood door imbued with Old Magic that led to the other side of the Wall and opened only for a man of the Night’s Watch.

Edd had been skeptical of her request, more skeptical still of Rhaenys asking to meet him in the depths of the palace, alone and at night, but he’d complied with her request.

Rhaenys, too, had been skeptical having come across a cryptic mention of the Black Gate’s location in one of her great uncle’s many books and scrolls collecting dust in the annals of Castle Black’s library. Her skepticism and the haunting dreams of endless snow, blue eyes, and gray animal hide clothes moving and blurring before she could get clear glimpses of the images. She always woke with a start these days, and Meera always watched her with that sort of quiet, knowing disapproval that frustrated Rhaenys eternally.

Neither she nor Edd expected the door to open.

Neither she nor Edd expected the tunnel to lead North of the Wall.

Neither she nor Edd expected Meera to find and follow them for a sound rebuking.

Neither she nor Edd nor even Meera expected the wildling raid.

Returning to the tunnel was as risky as it was improbable, the snows too thick and their fatigue too great to make any great progress before the wildlings caught up to them. Edd and Meera had protested regardless at the very idea of leading wildlings back to a secret Night’s Watch tunnel that may allow them unmitigated access to the lands south of the Wall. Rhaenys had argued magic, and Meera had commented that no one quite knew how the old magic of the First Men worked, that there was no guarantee whatever allowed only men of the Night’s Watch to open the door couldn’t be reworked or undone.

They’d run instead, making east into the forest away from the direction of Whitetree towards Castle Black.

They were no match for wildlings, not in such large number, not with such familiarity to the geography, not being so fatigued as they were.

The wildlings had come for an incursion, a harrowing nighttime climb over a 700ft tall ice wall imbued with magic and having stood for eight millennia.

Rhaenys had come for an adventure.

That is how Rhanys had ended up tied between Edd and Meera, listening to them taunt the former for being a crow while leering at her and Meera. The latter, they seemed somewhat weary of, eyeing Meera’s confiscated spear and ease walking in the thick snow piles with grudging respect. Where they’re being taken, Rhaenys heard only whispers around fires of a King Beyond the Wall, though what he could want of two girls and a captured brother of the Night’s Watch who’d blown their attempt to climb the wall Rhaenys could not begin to fathom.

When the sun began to sink beyond the horizon, the air became hostile, unbearable to breath, like shard of ice piercing her very lungs. She never feels more like the southerner they call her than when she drags heavy, half-frozen air into her lungs and shivers where she’s draped in furs and squished between Edd and Meera for warmth. The more north they journey, the colder the days seem to become, the thicker the snow, the more intolerable the weather as though the very north whispers to Rhaenys’ Dornish/Targaryen blood that she does not belong here.

“My mother will find us,” repeats Rhaenys like a mantra while Meera offers naught but pitying looks.

It’s days later, long after the sun rises and sun sets have blended into an endless, uncountable thing when the group dragging them along meets with another. The sharp-tongued, waspish redhead helping to lead the party escorting them laughing with ease when another redhead, this one a burly giant man with a big smile and vulgar cheek, steps forward to greet them. The man studies them from the fire while talking with his people, and Rhaenys feels a chill sweep through her.

“She won’t,” says Meera suddenly, starting Rhaenys. “The queen won’t find us. Nor the king. Nor Lord Stark, nobody. Nobody knows we’re here, fewer about the Black Gate. All they know is one moment we were traveling west with the Night’s Watch, and the next, we disappeared with Eddison Tollett, steward of the Night’s Watch.”

“Me?”

“You,” replies Meera curtly. “At best they’ll think he’s kidnapped us to sell us to slavers heading east, at worst, they’ll think us murdered and burnt by wildlings during the raid. And even if they did know, not even a southern army could find us this far north, not in this landscape, which brings me to another point. Don’t use your family name to cow them.”

“I’d not,” says Rhaenys, offended. “They’d neither know nor care anyway.”

“They might.” Rhaenys’ gaze swings to Edd with shock. He shrugs. “The King-Beyond-The-Wall, Mance Raydar, he used to be a brother of the Night’s Watch before abandoning the order in the north. He knows the name Targaryen well, your family, your name. He’s been gathering an army, moving south like they have intentions. Maester Aemon, Qhorin Halfhand, and Jeor Mormont believe he’s trying to move a large portion of the wildlings south beyond the Wall.”

Meera blanches while Rhaenys looked between her two companions, not quite grasping their immediate devastation of the circumstances.

“I don’t fully understand.”

“You think your father a simpleton and a dreamer, which is not entirely incorrect, but if Mance Raydar sent a missive he held you captive in the North and wanted to bring his people south beyond the Wall in exchange for you, even your simpleton father may consider it. He can’t bring his armies here. Southern armies aren’t ready for war this far north. The Northern army loves to fight wildlings but they wouldn’t abandon their homes and families on the eve of winter for a Targaryen princess not worth near so much as the Crown Prince. Dorne would demand your safe return and quarrel with the North over their reticence to ride to war to fetch you. The Night’s Watch would be criticized for doing nothing to help you, being unable to protect you, and refusing to join a side in this war. And there’s a risk you could be…violated and birth a wildling child with royal blood and a claim to the throne.” Meera lays out everything Rhaenys had already realized somewhat in a soft whisper while Edd nods. “But if he allowed them south of the Wall, the North would rebel. Wildlings have spent centuries raping and thieving and pillaging. They’re no better than the Ironborn, reaving and raping and collecting saltwives in the lands they desecrate, except the Ironborn keep to the seas and coasts, and are generally civilized enough if not decent by any stretch. The North loathe and fear the wildlings, believe wildlings are the reason for the 700ft magic ice wall and the existence of the Night’s Watch.”

“That’s not logical,” sighs Rhaenys.

“What else is there?” Edd asks with a disbelieving scoff, wilting when the girls look at him in outright confusion.

A brunette woman, trembling and far away from her companions, watches them with dark, frightened eyes that glittering dangerously in the firelight. Rhaenys flinches when she catches that empty-eyed, haunted stare, but the woman says nothing seeming to look through Rhaenys.

“They cannot be allowed past the Wall,” whispers Meera, expression hard and determined while the two redheads and a twitchy, dirty brunet approach them.

“You gotta name, then?” The redhaired girl asks, waving a hand before Edd can speak. “Not you, crow. You girl, and you, you ent got names?”

“Jeyne,” says Meera, voice strong and unable to feign weakness with her spear in their possession. “Jeyne of Flint’s Finger.”

It’s clear this means nothing to the wildlings but Rhaenys understands the precariousness of their position, of the fragile peace in Westeros. Meera had picked a common, ordinary name and a place near her home that she’s likely been to well enough to fool Mance Rayder. Rhaenys wonders how well she’ll be able to fool a former brother of the Night’s Watch she’s not a noble lady.

“And you?” The girl asks, tip of her spear raising Rhaenys’ chin to meet her eyes. “You gotta name, southerner?”

“Lyanna,” says Rhaenys boldly, hearing Meera’s inhale of surprise. “Lyanna Sand of Dorne.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the idea of the North as this mythical place of honor is so laughable it’s ridiculous. Lyanna Mormont is the level of honor that the North needs to be at consistently to be reputed for having honor, straight up, and they’re nowhere even approaching that. However, I think they’re not as entrenched in the game as deep as the southerner houses which has earned them this reputation so it seemed fair to create a realistic world where they’re less cutthroat for better reason. At the end of the day, winter is coming, they’ll be hit first and hardest, they don’t have time for infighting or battles for a throne in foreign lands, which isn’t to say there aren’t power struggles only different ones that seem less destructive than in the South.
> 
> Everyone in this story paints Daenerys as this shrinking violet and perfect lady, let me make this clear: she was raised by Rhaella and Bonifer Hasty. She can play the game as well as Elia, except no one is looking closely enough at her to notice. That being said, it’s important to me in switching POVs to stay true to what characters think of each other. Rhaenys compares herself to Daenerys as she does to all the women in her life and feels like she’s mediocre by comparison, which doesn’t necessarily make it true, but she grew up around strong yet beautiful women, which doesn’t give her a great deal of leeway in making fair approximations of her own appearance, skills, and strengths. She feels like she has things to prove and is a little too headstrong, but luckily for her she is capable of getting herself out of messes she gets into...with difficulty.
> 
> I feel like I need to address the wildlings. Do I think they should go south of the Wall? Yes. Do I think they deserve to live as people not zombies? Yes. Do I think Jon’s show ‘they’ve killed hundreds of us but we’ve killed thousands of them’ thing makes some sense? Yes. Do I think they should have unilaterally been brought south of the Wall without negotiations just because they were besieged by zombies? Absolutely not.
> 
> Here’s the thing, they didn’t just come south of the wall to steal or attack the Night’s Watch. They raped and pillaged their way through towns and villages and farms. And that is not ok. At the very least, terms should have been agreed upon like ‘you get all this land without having to kneel but you follow our laws don’t get to rape and pillage anyone in surrounding towns and villages‘. This is where I freely admit I didn’t research what happened in the books, feel free to let me know, but either way, you can’t let lawless destruction south of the wall when winter’s coming. That’s insane, and I’ll just let Rhaenys handle this situation.
> 
> Anyway, this is where I leave you until probably late September when I finish work. This is officially on hiatus. Happy 4th of July, I hope you enjoy fireworks wherever you are because here in Seward, they have alleged been canceled but there are still assloads of campers that seem to think otherwise so I guess we’ll find out...not me though I work early tomorrow.


End file.
